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THE  STORY  OF  THE   GADSBYS 


THE 


STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


BY 

RUDYARD  KIPLING 


Authorized  Edition 


NEW  YORK 
LOVELL,  CORYELL  &  COMPANY 

310-318   SIXTH    AVENUE 


GL,J^J^^^    XcJ^ 


Copyright  1891, 

BY 

UNITED  STATES  BOOK  COMPANY 


■U.^ 


/-  ^^ 


This  edition  of  my  collected  writings  is  issued  in 
America  with  my  cordial  sanction. 

RUDYARD  KIPLING. 
London,  March,  i8pi» 


iw598597 


PREFACE. 


To   THE   ADDRESS    OF 

CAPTAIN   J.    MAFFLIN, 

Duke  of  Derrfs  {Pink)  Hussars, 

Dear  Mafflin,  —  You  will  remember  that 
I  wrote  this  story  as  an  Awful  Warning. 
None  the  less  you  have  seen  fit  to  disregard 
it  and  have  followed  Gadsby's  example  — 
as  I  betted  you  would.  I  acknowledge 
that  you  paid  the  money  at  once,  but  you 
have  prejudiced  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Mafflin 
against  myself,  for  though  I  am  almost  the 
only  respectable  friend  of  your  bachelor  days, 
she  has  been  darwaza  band  to  me  through- 
out the  season.  Further,  she  caused  you  to 
invite  me  to  dinner  at  the  Club,  where  you 
called  me   '*  a  wild  ass  of  the  desert,"  and 

3 


4  PREFACE. 

went  home  at  half-past  ten,  after  discoursing 
for  twenty  minutes  on  the  responsibiHties  of 
house-keeping.  You  now  drive  a  mail-phae- 
ton and  sit  under  a  Church  of  England  cler- 
gyman. 1  am  not  angry,  Jack.  It  is  your 
kismet,  as  it  was  Caddy's,  and  his  kismet  who 
can  avoid  ?  Do  not  think  that  I  am  moved 
by  a  spirit  of  revenge  as  I  write,  thus  pub- 
licly, that  you  and  you  alone  are  responsible 
for  this  book.  In  other  and  more  expansive 
days,  when  you  could  look  at  a  magnum  with- 
out flushing  and  at  a  cheroot  without  turning 
white,  you  supplied  me  with  most  of  the 
material.  Take  it  back  again  —  would  that  I 
could  have  preserved  your  fetterless  speech 
In  the  telling  —  take  It  back,  and  by  your 
slippered  hearth  read  It  to  the  late  Miss 
Deercourt.  She  will  not  be  any  the  more 
willing  to  receive  my  cards,  but  she  will 
admire  you  immensely,  and  you,  I  feel  sure, 
will  love  me.  You  may  even  Invite  me  to 
another  very  bad  dinner  —  at  the  Club, 
which,  as  you  and  your  wife  know,  Is  a  safe 
neutral  ground  for  the  entertainment  of  wild 


PREFACE.  5 

asses.     Then,    my  very   dear    hypocrite,  we 
shall  be  quits. 

Yours  always, 

RUDYARD   KIPLING.,* 

P.S,  —  On  second  thoughts  I  should  rec- 
ommend you  to  keep  the  book  away  from 
Mrs.  Mafflin. 


CONTENTS. 


THE    STORY    OF   THE    GADSBYS. 


PAGE 


Poor  Dear  Mamma 9 

The  World  Without 29 

The  Tents  of  Kedar 49 

With  any  Amazement 70 

The  Garden  of  Eden 89 

Fatima 108 

The  Valley  of  the  Shadow 133 

The  Swelling  of  Jordan 152 


UNDER   THE    DEODARS. 

The  Education  of  Otis  Yeere 179 

At  the  Pit's  Mouth 226 

A  Wayside  Comedy 239 

The  Hiv.  of  Illusion 264 

A  Second-Rate  Woman 284 


POOR  DEAR  MAMMA. 


The  wild  hawk  to  the  wind-swept  sky, 

The  deer  to  the  wholesome  wold, 
And  the  heart  of  a  man  to  the  heart  of  a  maid, 

As  it  was  in  the  days  of  old, 

Gypsy  Song, 

Scene. — Interior  ^/Miss  Minnie  Threegan's 
bedroom  at  Simla.  Miss  Threegan,  in  win- 
dow-seat, turning  over  a  drawer/ul  of  chif- 
fons. Miss  Emma  Deercourt,  bosom-friend, 
who  has  come  to  spend  the  day,  sitting  on 
the  bed,  manipulating  the  bodice  of  a  ball- 
room frock  and  a  bunch  of  artificial  lilies 
of  the  valley,  Ti^ne  5.30  p.m.,  on  a  hot 
May  afternoon. 

Miss  Deercourt.  —  And  he  said  :  —  "I 
shall  never  forget  this  dance,"  and,  of  course, 
I  said  :  —  **  Oh  !  How  can  you  be  so  silly !  " 
Do  you  think  he  meant  anything,  dear  ? 

9 


lO  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS, 

Miss  Threegan. —  {Extracting  long  lav- 
ender silk  stocking  from  the  rubbish^  You 
know  him  better  than  /  do. 

Miss  D.  —  Oh,  do  be  sympathetic,  Minnie  ! 
I'm  sure  he  does.  At  least  I  would  be  sure 
if  he  wasn't  always  riding  with  that  odious 
Mrs.  Hagan. 

Miss  T.  —  I  suppose  so.  How  does  one 
manage  to  dance  through  one's  heels  first  ? 
Look  at  this  —  isn't  it  shameful  ?  {Spreads 
stocking-heel  on  open  hand  for  inspection?) 

Miss  D.  —  Never  mind  that!  You  can't 
mend  It.  Help  me  with  this  hateful  bodice. 
I've  run  the  string  so,  and  I've  run  the  string 
so,  and  I  cant  make  the  fulness  come  right. 
Where  would  you  put  this  ?  (  Waves  lilies 
of  the  valley?) 

Miss  T.  —  As  high  up  on  the  shoulder  as 
possible. 

Miss  D.  —  Am  I  quite  tall  enough?  I 
know  It  makes  May  Olger  look  lop-sided. 

Miss  T.  —  Yes,  but  May  hasn't  your  shoul- 
ders.    Hers  are  like  a  hock-bottle. 

Bearer.  —  {Rapping  at  door?)  Captain 
Sahib  ay  a. 


POOR  DEAR  MAMMA.  II 

Miss  D.  —  {Jumping  up  wildly,  and 
hunting  for  body,  which  she  has  discarded 
owing  to  the  heat  of  the  day.)  Captain 
Sahib !  What  Captain  Sahib  ?  Oh,  good 
gracious,  and  I'm  only  half  dressed !  Well, 
I  sha  n't  bother. 

Miss  T.—  {Calmly,)  You  needn't.  It 
isn't  for  us.  That's  Captain  Gadsby.  He  is 
going  for  a  ride  with  Mamma.  He  gener- 
ally comes  five  days  out  of  the  seven. 

Agonized  Voice.  —  {From,  an  inner  apart- 
ment?) Minnie,  run  out  and  give  Captain 
Gadsby  some  tea,  and  tell  him  I  shall  be 
ready  in  ten  minutes ;  and,  O  Minnie,  come 
to  me  an  instant,  there's  a  dear  girl ! 

Miss  T.  — O  bother!  {Aloud.)  Very 
well,  Mamma. 

Exit,  and  reappears,  after  five  minutes^ 
flushed,  and  rtibbing  her  fingers. 

Miss  D.  —  You  look  pink.  What  has 
happened  ? 

Miss  T.  —  {In  a  stage  whisper!)  A 
twenty-four-inch  waist,  and  she  won't  let  it 
out.     Where  are  my  bangles  ?     {Rmnmages 


12  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

on  the  toilet  table,  and  dabs  at  her  hair  luith 
a  brush  in  the  interval?) 

Miss  D. — Who  is  this  Captain  Gadsby? 
I  don't  think  I've  met  him. 

Miss  T.  —  You  7nust  have.  He  belongs 
to  the  Harrar  set.  I've  danced  with  him, 
but  I've  never  talked  to  him.  He's  a  big 
yellow  man,  just  like  a  newly  hatched  chicken, 
with  an  e-normous  mustache.  He  walks 
like  this  {imitates  Cavalry  swagger^,  and 
he  goes  ''  Ha —  Hmmm  !  "  deep  down  in  his 
throat  when  he  can't  think  of  anything  to 
say.     Mamma  likes  him.     I  don't. 

Miss  D.  —  {Abstractedly^  Does  he  wax 
that  mustache  ? 

Miss  T.  —  {Busy  with  pomder-puff^ 
Yes,  I  think  so.     Why? 

Miss  D.  —  {Bending  over  the  bodice  and 
sewing  furiously^    Oh,  nothing  —  only  .  .  . 

Miss  T.  —  {Sternly.)  Only  what  ?  Out 
with  it,  Emma. 

Miss  D. — Well,  May  Olger— she's  en- 
gaged to  Mr.  Charteris,  you  know  —  said 
•  .  .  Promise  you  won't  repeat  this  ? 


POOR  DEAR^ MAMMA.  13 

Miss  T.  —  Yes,  I  promise.  What  did  she 
say? 

Miss  D. — That  —  that  being  kissed  {with 
a  rush)  by  a  man  who  didnt  wax  his  mus- 
tache was  —  Hke  eating  an  ^g^  without  salt. 
Miss  T.  —  (^At  her  full  height,  zvith  crush- 
ing scof^n.)  May  Olger  Is  a  horrid,  nasty 
Thing,  and  you  can  tell  her  I  said  so.  I'm 
glad  she  doesn't  belong  to  my  set  .  .  .1 
must  go  and  feed  this  man !  Do  I  look 
presentable  ? 

Miss  D.  —  Yes,  perfectly.  Be  quick  and 
hand  him  over  to  your  Mother,  and  then  we 
can  talk,  /shall  listen  at  the  door  to  hear 
what  you  say  to  him. 

Miss  T.  —  'Sure  I  don't  care.  Fm  not 
afraid  of  Captain  Gadsby. 
In  proof  of  this  swings  into  drawing-room 
with  a  mannish  stride  followed  by  two  short 
steps,  ivhich  produces  tJie  effect  of  a  restive 
horse  entering.  Misses  Captain  Gadsby, 
who  is  sitting  in  the  shadow  of  the  windozv- 
curtain,  and  gazes  rotmd  helplessly. 
Cafiain    Gadsby.  —  {Aside.)      The   filly, 


14  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSDYS. 

by  Jove!  Must  ha  picked  up  th^t  action 
from  the  sire.  (^Aloud,  rising.)  Good- 
evening,  Miss  Threegan. 

MissT.  —  (  Conscious  that  she  is  flushing?) 
Good-evening,  Captain  Gadsby.  Mamma 
told  me  to  say  that  she  will  be  ready  in  a 
few  minutes.  Won't  you  have  some  tea? 
{Aside:)  I  hope  Mamma  will  be  quick. 
What  am  I  to  say  to  the  creature?  {Aloud 
and  abruptly?)     Milk  and  sugar. 

Capt.  G.  —  No  sugar,  tha-anks,  and  very 
litde  milk.      Ha-Hmmm. 

Miss  T.  —  {Aside?)  If  he's  going  to  do 
that,  I'm  lost.  I  shall  laugh.  I  knoiu  I 
shall ! 

Capt.  G.  —  {Pidling  at  his  mtistache  and 
zuatching  it  sideways  doiun  his  nose?)  Ha- 
Hmmm.  {Aside?)  'Wonder  what  the  little 
beast  can  talk  about.  'Must  make  a  shot  at  it. 

Miss  T.  —  {Aside?)  Oh,  this  is  agoniz- 
ing.    I  micst  say  something. 

Both  Together.  —  Have  you  been  .  .  . 

Capt.  G.  —  I  beg  your  pardon.  You  were 
going  to  say  — 


POOR  DEAR  MAMMA.  1 5 

Miss  T.  —  ( Who  has  been  watching  the 
mustache  with  awed  fascination^  Won't 
you  have  some  eggs  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  {^Looking  bewilder edly  at  the 
tea-table?)  Eggs !  (Aside.)  Oh,  Hades ! 
She  must  have  a  nursery-tea  at  this  hour. 
S'pose  they've  wiped  her  mouth  and  sent 
her  to  me  while  the  Mother  is  getting  on  her 
duds.      {Alo2cd.)     No,  thanks. 

Miss  T.  — (  Crimson  with  confusion^  Oh  ! 
I  didn't  mean  that.  I  wasn't  thinking  of 
mu  —  eggs  for  an  instant.  I  mean  salt. 
Won't  you  have  some  sa  —  sweets  ?  (^Aside.) 
He'll  think  me  a  raving  lunatic.  I  wish 
Mamma  would  come. 

Capt.  G.  —  (Aside.)  It  ivas  a  nursery-tea 
and  she's  ashamed  of  it.  By  Jove!  She 
doesn't  look  half  bad  when  she  colors  up 
like  that .  (A  loud,  help ing  h  imselffrovi  the 
dish.)  Have  you  seen  those  new  chocolates 
at  Peliti's  ? 

Miss  T.  —  No,  I  made  these  myself.  What 
are  they  like? 

Capt.  G. — These!  Z^^-licious.  (Aside.) 
And  that's  a  fact. 


1 6  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Miss  T.  —  {Aside)  Oh,  bother  !  He'll 
think  I'm  fishing  for  compliments.  {Aloud?) 
No,  Pelitl's  of  course. 

Capt.  G.  —  {Enthusiastically)  Not  to 
compare  with  these.  How  d'you  make  them  ? 
I  can't  get  my  khansamah  to  understand 
the  simplest  thing  beyond  mutton  and 
mu7^ghi. 

Miss  T.  —  Yes.^^  I'm  not  a  khansamahy 
you  know.  Perhaps  you  frighten  him.  You 
should  never  frighten  a  servant.  He  loses 
his  head.     It's  very  bad  policy. 

Capt.  G.  —  He's  so  awf'ly  stupid. 

Miss  T.  —  {Folding  her  ha^ids  in  her  lap) 
You  should  call  him  quietly  and  say:  —  "  O 
khansamah  jee  I " 

Capt.  G.  —  {Getting  interested)  Yes? 
{Aside)  Fancy  that  little  featherweight 
saying,  '' O  khansamah  jee''  to  my  blood- 
thirsty Mir  Khan  ! 

Miss  T.  — Then  you  should  explain  the 
dinner,  dish  by  dish. 

Capt.  G,  — -  But  I  can't  speak  the  vernac- 
ular. 


POOR  DEAR  MAMMA.  1 7 

Miss  T.  —  (^Patronizingly ?)  You  should 
pass  the  Higher  Standard  and  try. 

Capt.  G.  —  I  have,  but  I  don't  seem  to  be 
any  the  wiser.     Are  you  ? 

Miss  T.  —  I  never  passed  the  Higher 
Standard.  But  the  khansamah  Is  very  pa- 
tient with  me.  He  doesn't  get  angry  when  I 
talk  about  sheep's  topees,  or  order  maimds  of 
grain  when  I  mean  seers. 

Capt.  G.  —  (^Aside,  with  intense  indigna- 
tion?) I'd  like  to  see  Mir  Khan  being  rude 
to  that  girl !  Hullo !  Steady  the  Buffs  ! 
{Aloud,)  And  do  you  understand  about 
horses,  too? 

Miss  T.  —  A  little  —  not  very  much.  I 
can't  doctor  them,  but  I  know  what  they  ought 
to  eat,  and  I  am  In  charge  of  our  stable. 

Caff.  G.  —  Indeed  !  You  might  help  me 
then.  What  ought  a  man  to  give  his  sais  In 
the  Hills  ?  My  ruffian  says  eight  rupees, 
because  everything  Is  so  dear. 

Miss  T.  —  Six  rupees  a  month,  and  one 
rupee  Simla  allowance  —  neither  more  nor 
less.  And  a  grass-cut  gets  six  rupees.  That's 
better  than  buying  grass  In  the  bazar. 


1 8  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Capt.  G.  —  {Admiringly?)  How  do  you 
know  ? 

Miss  T.  —  I  have  tried  both  ways. 

Capt.  G.  —  Do  you  ride  much,  then  ?  I've 
never  seen  you  on  the  Mall  ? 

Miss  T.  —  {Aside?)  I  haven't  passed  him 
moi'e  than  fifty  times.  {Aloud?)  Nearly 
every  day. 

Capt.  G.  —  By  Jove  !  I  didn't  know  that. 
Ha-Hmmm  !  {Ptills  at  his  mustaches  a7id 
is  silent  for  forty  seconds?) 

Miss  T.  —  {Desperately,  a7id  wondering 
ivhat  will  happen  next?)  It  looks  beautiful. 
I  shouldn't  touch  it  if  I  were  you.  {Aside?) 
It's  all  Mamma's  fault  for  not  coming  before. 
I  will  be  rude  ! 

Capt.  G.  —  {Bronzing  under  the  tan,  and 
bringing  down  his  ha?td  very  quickly?)  Eh  ! 
Wha-at !  Oh,  yes  !  Ha  !  Ha  !  {Laughs  un- 
easily?) {Aside,)  Well,  of  all  the  dashed 
cheek  !  I  never  had  a  woman  say  that  to  me 
yet.  She  must  be  a  cool  hand  or  else  .  .  . 
Ah  !  that  nursery  tea  ! 

Voice  from  the  Unknown.  — Tchk !  Tchk ! 
Tchk! 


POOR  DEAR  MAMMA.      .  I9 

Capt.  G.  —  Good  gracious  !     What's  that  ? 

Miss  T.  — The  dog,  I  think.  {Aside.) 
Emma  has  been  Hstening,  and  I'll  never  for- 
give her ! 

Capt.  G.  —  {Aside.)  They  don't  keep 
dogs  here.  {Aloud.)  'Didn't  sound  like  a 
dog,  did  it? 

Miss  T.  —  Then  it  must  have  been  the  cat. 
Let's  go  into  the  veranda.  What  a  lovely 
evening  it  is ! 

Steps  into  vermida  and  looks  out  across 
the  hills  into  sunset.  The  Captain  fol- 
lows. 

Capt.  G.  —  {Aside?)  Superb  eyes  !  I 
v^onder  that  I  never  noticed  them  before ! 
{Aloud?)  There's  going  to  be  a  dance  at 
Viceregal  Lodge  on  Wednesday.  Can  you 
spare  me  one  ? 

Miss  T.  —  {Shortly?)  No  !  I  don't  want 
any  of  your  charity-dances.  You  only  ask 
me  because  Mamma  told  you  to.  I  hop  and 
I  bump.     You  know  I  do ! 

Capt.  G.  —  {Aside?)  That's  true,  but  little 
girls     shouldn't    understand    these     things. 


20  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

(^Aloud.)  No,  on  my  word,  I  don*t.  You 
dance  beautifully. 

Miss  T. — Then  why  do  you  always  stand 
out  after  half  a  dozen  turns  ?  I  thought  offi- 
cers In  the  Army  didn't  tell  fibs. 

Capt.  G.  —  It  wasn't  a  fib,  believe  me.  I 
really  do  want  the  pleasure  of  a  dance  with 
you. 

Miss  T.  — {Wickedly.)  Why?  Won't 
Mamma  dance  with  you  any  more  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  {Moi^e  earnestly  than  the  neces- 
sity demands?)  I  wasn't  thinking  of  your 
Mother.     {Aside ^     You  little  vixen  ! 

Miss  T.  —  {Still  looking  out  of  the  nvin- 
dow.)  Eh?  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  was 
thinking  of  something  else. 

Capt.  G.  —  {Aside.)  Well !  I  wonder 
what  she'll  say  next.  I've  never  known  a 
woman  treat  me  like  this  before.  I  might  be 
—  Dash  it,  I  might  be  an  Infantry  subaltern  ! 
{Aloud.)  Oh,  _^/^<3;5'^  don't  trouble.  I'm  not 
worth  thinking  about.  Isn't  your  Mother 
ready  yet  ? 

Miss  T.  —  I  should  think  so  ;  but  promise 


POOR  DEAR  MAMMA.  21 

me,  Captain  Gadsby,  you  won't  take  poor 
dear  Mamma  twice  round  Jakko  any  more. 
It  tires  her  so. 

Capt.  G.    She  says  that  no  exercise  tires  her. 

Miss  T.  —  Yes,  but  she  suffers  afterwards. 
You  don't  know  what  rheumatism  is,  and  you 
oughtn't  to  keep  her  out  so  late,  when  it  gets 
chilly  in  the  evenings. 

Capt.  G.  —  (^Aside?)  Rheumatism  !  I 
thought  she  came  off  her  horse  rather  in  a 
bunch.  Whew !  One  lives  and  learns. 
{Aloud.)  Vm  sorry  to  hear  that.  She 
hasn't  mentioned  it  to  me. 

Miss  T.  (^Flurried ^  Of  course  not !  Poor 
dear  Mamma  never  would.  And  you  mustn't 
say  that  I  told  you  either.  Promise  me  that 
you  won't.  Oh,  Captain  Gadsby,  promise  me 
you  won't ! 

Capt.  G.  —  I  am  dumli,  or  —  I  shall  be  as 
soon  as  you've  given  me  that  dance,  and  an- 
other .  .  .  if  you  can  trouble  yourself  to  think 
about  me  for  a  minute. 

Miss  T.  —  But  you  won't  like  it  one  little 
bit.     You'll  be  awfully  sorry  afterwards. 


22  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Capt.  G.  —  I  shall  like  it  above  all  things, 
and  I  shall  only  be  sorry  that  I  didn't  get 
more.  (^Aside.)  Now  what  in  the  world  am 
I  saying? 

Miss  T.  —  Very  well.  You  will  have  only 
yourself  to  thank  if  your  toes  are  trodden  on. 
Shall  we  say  Seven  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  And  Eleven.  (Aside),  She 
can't  be  more  than  eight  stone,  but,  even  then, 
it*s  an  absurdly  small  foot.  {Looks  at  his 
own  riding  boots.)     • 

Miss  T.  —  They're  beautifully  shiny.  I  can 
almost  see  my  face  in  them. 

Capt.  G.  —  I  was  thinking  whether  I  should 
have  to  go  on  crutches  for  the  rest  of  my  Y\{t 
if  you  trod  on  my  toes. 

Miss  T.  —  Very  likely.  Why  not  change 
Eleven  for  a  square  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  No,  please  !  I  want  them  botl 
waltzes.     Won't  you  write  them  down  ? 

Miss  T.  —  /  don't  get  so  many  dances  tha 
I  shall  confuse  them.  You  will  be  the  of 
fender. 

Capt.  G. — Wait  and  see!  {Aside?)  She 
doesn't  dance  perfectly,  perhaps,  but  .  .  . 


POOR  DEAR  MAMMA.  23 

Miss  T.  —  Your  tea  must  have  got  cold  by 
this  time.     Won't  you  have  another  cup  ? 

Capi\  G.  —  No,  thanks.  Don't  you  think 
it's  pleasanter  out  in  the  veranda?  (^Aside.) 
I  never  saw  hair  take  that  color  In  the  sun- 
shine before.  (^Aloud.)  It's  like  one  of  Dick- 
see's  pictures. 

Miss  T.  —  Yes  !  It's  a  wonderful  sunset, 
isn't  It  ?  {Bhrntly.)  But  what  do  yoii  know 
about  Dicksee's  pictures  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  I  go  Home  occasionally.  And 
I  used  to  know  the  Galleries.  (^Nci^votcsly.) 
You  mustn't  think  me  only  a  Philistine  with 
...  a  mustache. 

Miss  T.  —  Don't !  Please  don't !  I'm  so 
sorry  for  what  I  said  then.  I  was  horribly 
rude.  It  slipped  out  before  I  thought.  Don't 
you  know  the  temptation  to  say  frightful  and 
shocking  things  just  for  the  mere  sake  of 
saying  them  ?     I'm  afraid  I  gave  way  to  it. 

Capt.  G.  —  ( Watching  the  girl  as  she 
flushes^  I  thifik  I  know  the  feeling.  It 
would  be  terrible  if  we  all  yielded  to  it, 
wouldn't  it  ?     For  instance,  I  might  say  .  .  . 


24  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBVS. 

Poor  dear  Mamma.  —  (^Entering,  habited, 
hat  fed,  and  booted.)  Ah,  Captain  Gadsby  ! 
'Sorry  to  keep  you  waiting.  'Hope  you  haven't 
been  bored.  'My  little  girl  been  talking  to 
you  ? 

Miss  T. —  (Aside.)  I'm  not  sorry  I  spoke 
about  the  rheumatism.  Fm  not!  I'm  not! 
I  only  wish  I'd  mentioned  the  corns  too. 

Capt.  G.  —  (Aside,)  What  a  shame  !  I 
wonder  how  old  she  Is.  It  never  occurred  to 
me  before.  (Aloud.)  We've  been  discuss- 
ing "  Shakespeare  and  the  musical  glasses  " 
In  the  veranda. 

Miss  T.  —  (Aside.)  Nice  man !  He  knows 
that  quotation.  He  isnt  a  Philistine  with 
a  mustache.  (Aloud.)  Good-by,  Captain 
Gadsby.  (Aside.)  What  a  huge  hand  and 
what  a  squeeze  !  I  don't  suppose  he  meant 
it,  but  he  has  driven  the  rings  into  my  fingers. 

Poor  dear  Mamma.  —  Has  Vermilion  come 
round  yet  ?  Oh,  yes  !  Captain  Gadsby,  don't 
you  think  that  the  saddle  is  too  far  forward  ? 
(They  pass  into  the  front  veranda!) 

Capt.    G.  —  (Aside.)      How    the   dickens 


POOR  DEAR  MAMMA,  2 5 

should  I  know  what  she  prefers  ?  She  told 
me  that  she  doted  on  horses.  (^Alotid.)  I 
think  it  Is. 

Miss  T.  —  (  Coming  out  into  front  veran- 
da^ Oh  !  Bad  Buldoo  !  I  must  speak  to 
him  for  this.  He  has  taken  up  the  curb  two 
links,  and  Vermilion  hates  that.  {Passes  out 
and  to  horse  s  head.) 

Capt.  G.  —  Let  me  do  It ! 

Miss  T.  —  No,  Vermilion  understands  me. 
Don't  you,  old  man?  {Looses  curb-chain 
skilfully,  and  pats  horse  on  nose  and  throttle.) 
Poor  Vermilion  !  Did  they  want  to  cut  his 
chin  off  ?     There  ! 

Captain  Gadsby  watches  the  interlude  with 
undisguised  admiration. 

Poor  dear  Mamma.  —  {Tartly  to  Miss  T.) 
You've  forgotten  your  guest,  I  think,  dear. 

Miss  T.  —  Good  gracious  !  So  I  have  ! 
Good-by.      {Retreats  indoors  hastily?) 

Poor  dear  Mamma.  —  {Bunching  reins  in 
fingers  hampered  by  too  tight  gauntlets?) 
Captain  Gadsby ! 

Capt.  Gadsby  stoops  a7id  makes  the  foot-rest. 


26  THE  STORY  OF  TME  GADSBYS. 

Poor  dear  Mamma  blunders,  halts  too  long, 
and  breaks  through  it. 

Captain  G.  —  (Aside.)  Can't  hold  up 
eleven  stone  forever.  It's  all  your  rheuma- 
tism. (Aloud.)  Can't  imagine  why  I  was 
so  clumsy.  (Aside.)  Now  Little  Feather- 
weight would  have  gone  up  like  a  bird. 

They  ride  out  of  the  garden.  The  Captain 
falls  back. 

Capt.  G.  —  (Aside^  How  that  habit 
catches  her  under  the  arms  !     Ugh  ! 

Poor  dear  Mamma.  —  ( With  the  worn 
smile  of  sixteen  seasons,  the  worse  for  ex- 
change.)  You're  dull  this  afternoon,  Cap- 
tain Gadsby. 

Capt.  G.  —  (Spurring  up  wearily.)  Why 
did  you  keep  me  waiting  so  long? 

£t  c cetera,  et  c cetera,  et  c cetera, 

(an  interval  of  three  weeks.) 

Gilded  Youth.  —  (Sitting  ofi  railings  op- 
posite Town  Hall.)  Hullo,  Gaddy !  'Been 
trotting  out  the  Gorgonzola  ?  We  all  thought 
it  was  the  Gorgon  you're  mashing. 


POOR  DEAR  MAMMA.  2/ 

Capt.  G.  —  ( With  withering  emphasis^ 
You  young  cub  !  What  the does  it  mat- 
ter to  you  ? 

Proceeds  to  read  Gilded  Youth  a  lecture 
on  discretion  and  deportment,  which  crumples 
latter  like  a  Chinese  Lantern.  Departs  fum- 
ing. 

(further  interval  of  five  weeks.) 

Scene.  —  Exterior  of  New  Library  on  a 
foggy  evening.  Miss  Threegan  and  Miss 
Deercourt  meet  among  the  'rickshaws.  Miss 
T.  is  carrying  a  bundle  of  books  under  her 
left  arm. 

Miss  D.  —  (^L^evel  intonation^     Well  ? 

Miss  T.  —  {Ascending  intonation^    Well  ? 

Miss  D.  —  {Capturing  her  friend's  left 
arm,  taking  away  all  the  books,  placing  books 
in  'rickshaw,  returning  to  arm,  securing  hand 
by  the  third  finger  and  investigating^  Well ! 
You  bad  girl !     And  you  never  told  me. 

Miss  T. —  {Demurely.^  He  —  he  —  he 
only  spoke  yesterday  afternoon. 

Miss  D.  —  Bless  you,  dear !     And  I'm  to 


28  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

be  bridesmaid,  aren't  I  ?  You  know  you 
promised  ever  so  long  ago. 

Miss  T.  — Of  course.  I'll  tell  you  all 
about  it  to-morrow.  (^Gets  into  'rickshaw?) 
Oh,  Emma! 

Miss  D.  —  (  With  intense  interest^  Yes, 
dear? 

Miss  T.  —  {Piano.)  It's  quite  true  .  .  . 
about  .  .  .  the  .  .  .  Q.gg. 

Miss  D.  — What  ^gg} 

Miss  T.  —  {Pianissimo  prestissimo^  The 
^gg  without  the  salt.  {Forte.)  Chalo  ghar 
ko  jaldi,  jhampani  I 

CURTAIN. 


THE  WORLD  WITHOUT. 


"  Certain  people  of  importance." 

Scene.  —  Smoking-room  of  the  Degchi  Club. 
Time  10.30  v.m,  of  a  stuffy  7iight  in  the 
Rains.  Four  men  dispersed  in  picturesque 
attitudes  and  easy-chairs.  To  these  enter 
Blayne  of  the  Irregular  Moguls,  in  evening 
di^ess. 

Blayne.  —  Phew  !  The  Judge  ought  to  be 
hanged  In  his  own  store-godown.  Hi,  khit- 
vtatgar !  Poora  whiskey-peg,  to  take  the 
taste  out  of  my  mouth. 

CuRTiss — {Royal  Artillery.)  That's  it, 
is  it  ?  What  the  deuce  made  you  dine  at  the 
Judge's  ?     You  know  his  bandobust. 

Blayne.  —  Thought  it  couldn't  be  worse 
than  the  Club  ;  but  I'll  swear  lie  buys  ullaged 
qliuor  and  doctors  it  with  gin  and  ink  (look- 

29 


30  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

ing  round  the  room.)  Is  this  all  of  you 
to-night  ? 

DooNE.  —  (P.  W.  D.)  Anthony  was 
called  out  at  dinner.  Mingle  had  a  pain  in 
his  tummy. 

CuRTiss.  —  Miggy  dies  of  cholera  once  a 
week  in  the  Rains,  and  gets  drunk  on  chloro- 
dyne  in  between.  'Good  little  chap,  though. 
Any  one  at  the  Judge's,  Blayne  ? 

Blayne.  —  Cockley  and  his  memsahib 
looking  awfully  white  and  fagged.  'Female 
girl  —  couldn't  catch  the  name  —  on  her  way 
to  the  Hills,  under  the  Cockleys'  charge  — 
the  Judge,  and  Markyn  fresh  from  Simla  — 
disgustingly  fit. 

CuRTiss.  —  Good  Lord,  how  truly  magnifi- 
cent !  Was  there  enough  ice  ?  When  I 
mangled  garbage  there  I  got  one  whole 
lump  —  nearly  as  big  as  a  walnut.  What 
had  Markyn  to  say  for  himself? 

Blayne.  —  'Seems  that  every  one  is  having 
a  fairly  good  time  up  there  in  spite  of  the 
rain.  By  Jove,  that  reminds  me  !  I  know  I 
hadn't  come  across  just  for  the  pleasure  of 


THE    WORLD    WITHOUT.  3 1 

your  society.  News !  Great  news !  Mar- 
kyn  told  me. 

DooNE.  —  Who's  dead  now  ? 

Blayne.  —  No  one  that  I  know  of ;  but 
Caddy's  hooked  at  last ! 

Dropping  Chorus.  —  How  much  ?  The 
Devil !  Markyn  was  pulling  your  leg.  Not 
Caddy ! 

Blayne.  —  "Yea,  verily,  verily,  verily! 
Verily,  verily,  I  say  unto  thee."  Theodore, 
the  gift  o'  Cod  !  Our  Phillup !  It's  been 
given  out  up  above. 

Mackesy.  —  (^Barrister-at-Law.)  Huh  ! 
Women  will  give  out  anything.  What  does 
accused  say  ? 

Blayne.  —  Markyn  told  me  that  he  con- 
gratulated him  warily  —  one  hand  held  out, 
t'other  ready  to  guard.  Caddy  turned  pink 
and  said  it  was  so. 

CuRTiss.  —  Poor  old  Caddy  !  They  all  do 
it.     Who's  she  ?     Let's  hear  the  details. 

Blayne.  —  She's  a  girl  —  daughter  of  a 
Colonel  Somebody. 

Doone.  —  Simla's  stiff  with  Colonels' 
daughters.     Be  more  explicit.^ 


32  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS, 

Blayne.  —  Wait  a  shake.  What  was  her 
name  ?     Three  —  something.     Three  — 

CuRTiss.  —  Stars,  perhaps.  Gaddy  knows 
that  brand. 

Blayne.  —  Threegan  —  Minnie  Threegan. 

Mackesy.  —  Threegan  !  Isn't  she  a  Httle 
bit  of  a  girl  with  red  hair  ? 

Blayne. — 'Bout  that  —  from  what  Mar- 
kyn  said. 

Mackesy. — Then  I've  met  her.  She  was 
at  Lucknow  last  season.  'Owned  a  perma- 
nently juvenile  Mamma,  and  danced  dam- 
nably. I  say,  Jervoise,  you  knew  the  Three- 
gans,  didn't  you  ? 

Jervoise.  —  (  Civilian  of  twenty-five  years 
service,  waking  up  fro7n  his  doze?)  Eh ! 
What's  that?  Knew  who?  How?  I 
thought  I  was  at  Home,  confound  you  ! 

Mackesy. — The  Threegan  girl's  engaged, 
so  Blayne  says. 

Jervoise.  —  {Slowly.)  Engaged  —  en- 
gaged !  Bless  my  soul !  I'm  getting  an  old 
man  !  Little  Minnie  Threegan  engaged  !  It 
was  only  the  other  day  I  went  home  with 


THE    WORLD    WITHOUT,  33 

them  In  the  Sural — no,  the  Massilia  —  and 
she  was  crawHng  about  on  her  hands  and 
knees  among-  the  ayahs.  'Used  to  call  me 
the '' 7/Vy^  Tack  Sahib''  because  I  showed 
her  my  watch.  And  that  was  in  Sixty-Seven 
—  no,  Seventy.  Good  God,  how  time  flies  ! 
I'm  an  old  man.  I  remember  when  Threegan 
married  Miss  Derwent  —  daughter  of  old 
Hooky  Derwent  —  but  that  was  before  your 
time.  And  so  the  little  baby's  engaged  to 
have  a  little  baby  of  her  own  !  Who's  the 
other  fool  ? 

Mackesy.  —  Gadsby  of  the  Pink  Hussars. 

Jervoise.  —  'Never  met  him.  Threegan 
lived  in  debt,  married  in  debt,  and  '11  die  in 
debt.  'Must  be  glad  to  get  the  girl  off  his 
hands. 

Blayne.  —  Gaddy  has  money  —  lucky 
devil.     Place  at  Home,  too. 

DooNE.  —  He  comes  of  first-class  stock. 
'Can't  quite  understand  his  being  caught  by 
a  Colonel's  daughter,  and  {looking  cautiously 
round  room)  Black  Infantry  at  that !  No 
offence  to  you,  Blayne. 


34  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS, 

Blayne  (stiffly)  —  Not  much,  tha-anks. 

CuRTiss  —  {quoting  motto  of  Irregular 
Moguls^  —  *'  We  are  what  we  are,"  eh,  old 
man  ?  But  Gaddy  was  such  a  superior  ani- 
mal as  a  rule.  Why  didn't  he  go  Home  and 
pick  his  wife  there  ? 

Mackesy.  —  They  are  all  alike  when  they 
come  to  the  turn  into  the  straight.  About 
thirty  a  man  begins  to  get  sick  of  living 
alone  — 

CuRTiss.  —  And  of  the  eternal  muttony- 
chap  in  the  morning. 

DooNE.  —  It's  dead  goat  as  a  rule,  but  go 
on,  Mackesy. 

Mackesy.  —  If  a  man's  once  taken  that 
way  nothing  will  hold  him.  Do  you  remem- 
ber Benoit  of  your  service,  Doone  ?  They 
transferred  him  to  Tharanda  when  his  time 
came,  and  he  married  a  plate-layer's  daughter, 
or  something  of  that  kind.  She  was  the 
only  female  about  the  place. 

Doone.  —  Yes,  poor  brute.  That  smashed 
Benoit's  chances  altogether.  Mrs.  Benoit 
used  to  ask  :  — ''  Was  you  goin'  to  the  dance 
this  evenin'  ?  " 


THE   WORLD    WITHOUT,  35 

CuRTiss.  —  Hang  it  all  !  Gaddy  hasn't 
married  beneath  him.  There's  no  tar-brush 
in  the  family,  I  suppose. 

Jervoise.  —  Tar-brush  !  Not  an  anna. 
You  young  fellows  talk  as  though  the  man 
was  doing  the  girl  an  honor  in  marrying  her. 
You're  all  too  conceited  —  nothing's  good 
enough  for  you. 

Blayne.  —  Not  even  an  empty  Club,  a 
dam'  bad  dinner  at  the  Judge's,  and  a  Sta- 
tion as  sickly  as  a  hospital.  You're  quite 
right.     We're  a  set  of  Sybarites. 

DooNE.  —  Luxurious  dogs,  wallowing  in  — 

CuRTiss.  —  Prickly  heat  between  the 
shoulders.  I'm  covered  with  it.  Let's  hope 
Beora  will  be  cooler. 

Blayne.  —  Whew  !  Are  you  ordered  into 
camp,  too  ?  I  thought  the  Gunners  had  a 
clean  sheet. 

CuRTiss.  —  No,  worse  luck.  Two  cases 
yesterday  —  one  died  —  and  if  we  have  a 
third,  out  we  go.  Is  there  any  shooting  at 
Beora,  Doone  ? 

DooNE.  — The  country's  under  water,  ex- 


36  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

cept  the  patch  by  the  Grand  Trunk  Road.  1 
was  there  yesterday,  looking  at  a  bund,  and 
came  across  four  poor  devils  in  their  last 
stage.     It's  rather  bad  from  here  to  Kuchara. 

CuRTiss.  —  Then  we're  pretty  certain  to 
have  a  heavy  go  of  it.  Heigho  !  I  shouldn't 
mind  changing  places  with  Gaddy  for  a  while. 
'Sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade  of  the 
Town  Hall,  and  all  that.  Oh,  why  doesn't 
somebody  come  and  marry  me,  instead  of  let- 
ting me  go  into  cholera  camp  ? 

Mackesv  (^pointing  to  notice  forbidding 
dogs  in  the  Club.)  — Ask  the  Committee. 

CuRTiss.  —  You  irreclaimable  ruffian  ! 
You'll  stand  me  another  peg  for  that.  Blayne, 
what  will  you  take?  Mackesy  is  fined  on 
moral  grounds.  Doone,  have  you  any  pref- 
erence ? 

DooNE.  - — Small  glass  Klimmel,  please. 
Excellent  carminative,  these  days.  Anthony 
told  me  so. 

Mackesy  {signing  voucher  for  fotir 
drinks^  —  Most  unfair  punishment.  I  only 
thought  of  Curtiss  as  Actaeon  being  chivied 


THE    WORLD    WITHOUT,  37 

round  the  billiard  tables  by  the  nymphs  of 
Diana. 

Blayne.  —  Curtiss  would  have  to  import 
his  nymphs  by  train.  Mrs.  Cockley's  the 
only  woman  in  the  Station.  She  won't  leave 
Cockley,  and  he's  doing  his  best  to  get  her 
to  go. 

Curtiss.  —  Good,  indeed!  Here's  Mrs. 
Cockley's  health.  To  the  only  wife  in  the 
Station  and  a  damned  brave  woman  ! 

Omnes  (drinking?)  —  A  damned  brave 
woman  1 

Blayne.  —  I  suppose  Gaddy  will  bring  his 
wife  here  at  the  end  of  the  cold  weather. 
They  are  going  to  be  married  almost  immedi- 
ately, I  believe. 

Curtiss.  —  Gaddy  may  thank  his  luck  that 
the  Pink  Hussars  are  all  detachment  and  no 
headquarters  this  hot  weather,  or  he'd  be 
torn  from  the  arms  of  his  love  as  sure  as 
death.  Have  you  ever  noticed  the  thorough- 
minded  way  British  Cavalry  take  to  cholera  ? 
It's  because  they  are  so  expensive.  If  the 
Pinks  had  stood  fast  here,  they  would  have 


38  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS, 

been  out  in  camp  a  month  ago.  Yes,  I  should 
decidedly  like  to  be  Gaddy. 

Mackesy.  —  He'll  go  Home  after  he's  mar- 
ried, and  send  in  his  papers  —  see  if  he 
doesn't. 

Blayne.  —  Why  shouldn't  he  ?  Hasn't  he 
money  ?  Would  any  one  of  us  be  here  if 
we  weren't  paupers  ? 

DooNE.  —  Poor  old  pauper  !  What  has 
become  of  the  six  hundred  you  rooked  from 
our  table  last  month  ? 

Blayne.  —  It  took  unto  itself  wings.  I 
think  an  enterprising  tradesman  got  some  of 
it,  and  a  5-/^r^^  gobbled  the  rest  —  or  else  I 
spent  it. 

CuRTiss.  —  Gaddy  never  had  dealings  with 
a  shroff  in  his  life. 

DooNE.  —  Virtuous  Gaddy  !  If  /  had  three 
thousand  a  month,  paid  from  England,  I  don't 
think  I'd  deal  with  a  shroff  €\\ki^r, 

Mackesy  (^yawning).  —  Oh,  it's  a  sweet 
life  !  I  wonder  whether  matrimony  would 
make  it  sweeter. 

CuRTiss.  —  Ask  Cockley  —  with  his  wife 
dying  by  inches  ! 


THE   WORLD    WITHOUT,  39 

Blayne.  —  Go  home  and  get  a  fool  of  a 
girl  to  come  out  to  —  what  is  it  Thackeray 
says?  —  *' the  splendid  palace  of  an  Indian 
pro-consul." 

DooNE.  —  Which  reminds  me.  My  quar- 
ters leak  like  a  sieve.  I  had  fever  last  night 
from  sleeping  in  a  swamp.  And  the  worst  of 
it  is,  one  can't  do  anything  to  a  roof  till  the 
Rains  are  over. 

CuRTiss.  —  What's  wrong  with  you  ?  You 
haven't  eighty  rotting  Tommies  to  take  into  a 
running  stream. 

DooNE.  —  No  :  but  I'm  a  compost  of  boils 
and  bad  language.  I'm  a  regular  Job  all  over 
my  body.  It's  sheer  poverty  of  blood,  and  I 
don't  see  any  chance  of  getting  richer  — 
either  way. 

Blayne.  —  Can't  you  take  leave  ? 

DooNE.  —  That's  the  pull  you  Army  men 
have  over  us.  Ten  days  are  nothing  in  your 
sight.  Fm  so  important  that  Government 
can't  find  a  substitute  if  I  go  away.  Ye-es, 
I'd  like  to  be  Gaddy,  whoever  his  wife  may 
be. 


40  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

CuRTiss.  —  YouVe  passed  the  turn  of  life 
that  Mackesy  was  speaking  of. 

DooNE.  —  Indeed  I  have,  but  I  never  yet 
had  the  brutaHty  to  ask  a  woman  to  share  my 
life  out  here. 

Blayne.  —  On  my  soul  I  believe  you're 
right.  I'm  thinking  of  Mrs.  Cockley.  The 
woman's  an  absolute  wreck. 

DooNE.  —  Exactly.  Because  she  stays 
down  here.  The  only  way  to  keep  her  fit 
would  be  to  send  her  to  the  Hills  for  eight 
months  —  and  the  same  with  any  woman.  I 
fancy  I  see  myself  taking  a  wife  on  those 
terms. 

Mackesy.  —  With  the  rupee  at  one  and  six- 
pence. The  little  Doones  would  be  little 
Dehra  Doones,  with  a  fine  Mussoorie  chi-chi 
to  bring  home  for  the  holidays. 

CuRTiss.  — And  a  pair  of  be-ewtiful  sam- 
d/iur-horns  for  Doone  to  wear,  free  of  ex- 
pense, presented  by  — 

Doone.  —  Yes,  it's  an  enchanting  prospect. 
By  the  way,  the  rupee  hasn't  done  falling 
yet.     The    time   will    come    when   we    shall 


THE    WORLD    WITHOUT.  4I 

think  ourselves  lucky  if  we  only  lose  half  our 
pay. 

CuRTiss.  —  Surely  a  third's  loss  enough. 
Who  gains  by  the  arrangement  ?  That's  what 
I  want  to  know. 

Blayne.  —  The  Silver  Question  !  I'm  going 
to  bed  if  you  begin  squabbling.  Thank  Good- 
ness, here's  Anthony  —  looking  like  a  ghost. 

Enter  Anthony,  Indian  Medical  Staff,  very 
white  and  tired. 

Anthony.  —  'Evening,  Blayne.  It's  rain- 
ing in  sheets.  Peg  lao,  khitmatgar.  The 
roads  are  something  ghastly. 

CuRTiss.  —  How's  Mingle  ? 

Anthony.  Very  bad,  and  more  frightened. 
I  handed  him  overto  Fewton.  Mingle  might 
just  as  well  have  called  him  in  the  first  place, 
instead  of  bothering  me. 

Blayne.  —  He's  a  nervous  little  chap. 
What  has  he  got,  this  time  ? 

Anthony.  —  'Can't  quite  say.  A  very  bad 
tummy  and  a  blue  funk  so  far.  He  asked  me 
at  once  if  it  was  cholera,  and  I  told  him  not 
to  be  a  fool.     That  soothed  him. 


42  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

CuRTiss.  —  Poor  devil  !  The  funk  does 
half  the  business  in  a  man  of  that  build. 

Anthony  {lighting  a  cheroot) .  —  I  firmly 
believe  the  funk  will  kill  him  if  he  stays  down. 
You  know  the  amount  of  trouble  he's  been 
giving  Fewton  for  the  last  three  weeks.  He's 
doing  his  very  best  to  frighten  himself  into 
the  grave. 

General  Chorus.  —  Poor  little  devil ! 
Why  doesn't  he  get  away  ? 

Anthony.  —  'Can't.  He  has  his  leave  all 
right,  but  he's  so  dipped  he  can't  take  it,  and 
I  don't  think  his  name  on  paper  would  raise 
four  annas.     That's  in  confidence,  though. 

Mackesy.  —  All  the  Station  knows  it. 

Anthony.  —  ''I  suppose  I  shall  have  to 
die  here,"  he  said,  squirming  all  across  the 
bed.  He's  quite  made  up  his  mind  to  King- 
dom Come.  And  I  know  he  has  nothing 
more  than  a  wet-weather  tummy  if  he  could 
only  keep  a  hand  on  himself. 

Blayne.  —  That's  bad.  That's  very  bad. 
Poor  little  Miggy.  Good  little  chap,  too.  I 
say  — 


THE    WORLD    WITHOUT.  43 

Anthony.  —  What  do  you  say  ? 

Blayne.  —  Well,  look  here  —  anyhow.  If 
it's  like  that  —  as  you  say  —  I  say  fifty. 

CuRTiss.  —  I  say  fifty. 

Mackesy.  —  I  go  twenty  better. 

DooNE.  —  Bloated  Croesus  of  the  Bar  !  I 
say  fifty.  Jervoise,  what  do  you  say  ?  Hi ! 
Wake  up ! 

Jervoise.  —  Eh!  What's  that?  What's 
that? 

CuRTiss.  — We  want  a  hundred  dibs  from 
you.  You're  a  bachelor  drawing  a  gigantic 
income,  and  there's  a  man  in  a  hole. 

Jervoise.  —  What  man  ?     Any  one  dead  ? 

Blayne.  —  No,  but  he'll  die  if  you  don't 
give  the  hundred.  Here !  Here's  a  peg- 
voucher.  You  can  see  what  we've  signed  for, 
and  a  chaprassi  will  come  round  to-morrow 
to  collect  it.     So  there  will  be  no  trouble. 

Jervoise  {signing),  —  One  hundred,  E. 
M.  J.  There  you  are  {feebly).  It  isn't  one 
of  your  jokes,  is  it  ? 

Blayne.  —  No,  it  really  is  wanted.  An- 
thony,  you  were    the  biggest  poker-winner 


44  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

last  week,  and  you Ve  defrauded  the  tax-col- 
lector too  long.     Sign ! 

Anthony.  —  Let's  see.  Three  fifties  and 
a  seventy  —  two  twenty  —  three  twenty  —  say 
four  twenty.  That'll  give  him  a  month  clear 
at  the  Hills.  Many  thanks,  you  men.  I'll 
send  round  the  chaprassi  to-morrow. 

CuRTiss. — You  must  engineer  his  taking 
the  stuff,  and  of  course  you  mustn't  — 

Anthony. —  Of  course.  It  would  never 
do.  He'd  weep  with  gratitude  over  his  even- 
ing drink. 

Blayne. — Thafs  just  what  he  would  do, 
damn  him.  Oh !  I  say,  Anthony,  you  pre- 
tend to  know  everything.  Have  you  heard 
about  Gaddy  ? 

Anthony.  —  No.     Divorce  Court  at  last  ? 

Blayne.  —  Worse.     He's  engaged. 

Anthony.  —  How  much ?     He  cant  be  ! 

Blayne.  —  He  is.  He's  going  to  be  mar- 
ried In  a  few  weeks.  Markyn  told  me  at  the 
Judge's  this  evening.     It's  pukka. 

Anthony.  —  You  don't  say  so  ?  Holy 
Moses !  There'll  be  a  shine  in  the  tents  of 
Kedar. 


THE    WORLD    WITHOUT.  45 

CuRTiss.  —  'Regiment  cut  up  rough,  think 
you? 

Anthony.  —  'Don't  know  anything  about 
the  Regiment. 

Mackesy.  —  It  is  bigamy,  then  ? 

Anthony.  —  Maybe.  Do  you  mean  to  say 
that  you  men  have  forgotten,  or  is  there 
more  charity  in  the  world  than  I  thought  ? 

DooNE.  —  You  don't  look  pretty  when  you 
are  trying  to  keep  a  secret.  You  bloat. 
Explain. 

Anthony.  —  Mrs.  Herriott ! 

Blayne  (^after  a  long  pause,  to  the  room 
generally) .  —  It's  my  notion  that  we  are  a  set 
of  fools. 

Mackesy.  —  Nonsense.  That  business  was 
knocked  on  the  head  last  season.  Why, 
young  Mallard  — 

Anthony.  —  Mallard  was  a  candle-stick, 
paraded  as  such.  Think  a  while.  Recollect 
last  season  and  the  talk  then.  Mallard  or  no 
Mallard,  did  Gaddy  ever  talk  to  any  other 
woman  ? 

CuRTiss.  —  There's  something  in  that.     It 


46  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

was  slightly  noticeable  now  you  come  to  men- 
tion it.  But  she's  at  Naini  Tal  and  he's  at 
Simla. 

Anthony.  —  He  had  to  go  to  Simla  to  look 
after  a  globe-trotter  relative  of  his  —  a  per- 
son with  a  title.     Uncle  or  aunt. 

Blayne.  —  And  there  he  got  engaged. 
No  law  prevents  a  man  growing  tired  of  si 
woman. 

Anthony.  —  Except  that  he  mustn't  do  it 
till  the  woman  is  tired  of  him.  And  the 
Herriott  woman  was  not  that. 

CuRTiss.  —  She  may  be  now.  Two  months 
of  Naini  Tal  work  wonders. 

Doone.  —  Curious  thing  how  some  women 
carry  a  Fate  with  them.  There  w^as  a  Mrs. 
Deegie  in  the  Central  Provinces  whose  men 
invariably  fell  away  and  got  married.  It  be- 
came a  regular  proverb  with  us  when  I  was 
down  there.  I  remember  three  men  desper- 
ately devoted  to  her,  and  they  all,  one  after 
another,  took  wives. 

CuRTiss.  —  That's  odd.  Now  I  should 
have  thought  that  Mrs.   Deegie's   influence 


THE    WORLD    WITHOUT,  47 

would  have  led  them  to  take  other  men's 
wives.  It  ought  to  have  made  them  afraid  of 
the  judgment  of  Providence. 

Anthony.  —  Mrs.  Herriott  will  make  Gaddy 
afraid  of  something  more  than  the  judgment 
of  Providence,  I  fancy. 

Blayne.  —  Supposing  things  are  as  you 
say,  he'll  be  a  fool  to  face  her.  He'll  sit 
tight  at  Simla. 

Anthony.  —  'Shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised 
if  he  went  off  to  Naini  to  explain.  He's  an 
unaccountable  sort  of  man,  and  she's  likely 
to  be  a  more  than  unaccountable  woman. 

Doone.  —  What  makes  you  take  her  char- 
acter away  so  confidently  ? 

Anthony.  —  Primtim  tenipus,  Gaddy  was 
her  first,  and  a  woman  doesn't  allow  her  first 
man  to  drop  away  without  expostulation.  She 
justifies  the  first  transfer  of  affection  to  her- 
self by  swearing  that  it  is  forever  and  ever. 
Consequently  .  .  . 

Blayne.  —  Consequently,  we  are  sitting 
here  till  past  one  o'clock,  talking  scandal  like 
a  set  of  Station  cats.     Anthony,  it's  all  your 


48  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBVS, 

fault.  We  were  perfectly  respectable  till  you 
came  in.  Go  to  bed.  Fin  off.  Good-night 
all. 

CuRTiss,  —  Past  one  !  It's  past  two,  by 
Jove,  and  here's  the  khit  coming  for  the  late 
charge.  Just  Heavens !  One,  two,  three, 
four,  five  rupees  to  pay  for  the  pleasure  of 
saying  that  a  poor  little  beast  of  a  woman  is 
no  better  than  she  should  be.  I'm  ashamed 
of  myself.  Go  to  bed,  you  slanderous  villains, 
and  if  I'm  sent  to  Beora  to-morrow,  be  pre- 
pared to  hear  I'm  dead  before  paying  my 
card-account ! 

CURTAIN. 


THE  TENTS  OF  KEDAR. 


Only  why  should  it  be  with  pain  at  all. 
Why  must  I  'twixt  the  leaves  of  coronal 

Put  any  kiss  of  pardon  on  thy  brow? 
Why  should  the  other  women  know  so  much. 
And  talk  together  :  —  Such  the  look  and  such 

The  smile  he  used  to  love  with,  then  as  now. 
Any  Wife  to  any  Husband, 

Scene.  — A  Naini  Tal  dinner  for  thirty-fouy. 
Plate,  wines,  crockery,  and  khitmatgai  s 
carefully  calculated  to  scale  of  Rs.  6,000  per 
me^isem,  less  Exchange.  Table  split  length- 
ways by  bank  of  flowers. 

Mrs.  Herriott.  —  {After  conversation  has 
risen  to  proper  pitch?)  Ah!  'Didn't  see  you 
in  the  crush  in  the  drawing-room.  i^Sotto 
voce?)  Where  have  you  been  all  this  while, 
Pip? 

Captain  Gadsby.  —  {Turning  from  regu- 
49 


so  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

larly  ordained  dinner  paHner  and  settling 
hock  glasses?)  Good-evening.  (^Sottovoce,) 
Not  quite  so  loud  another  time.  You've  no 
notion  how  your  voice  carries.  {Aside?)  So 
much  for  shirking  the  written  explanation. 
It'll  have  to  be  a  verbal  one  now.  Sweet 
prospect !  How  on  earth  am  I  to  tell  her  that 
I  am  a  respectable,  engaged  member  of  so- 
ciety and  it's  all  over  between  us  ? 

Mrs  H.  —  I've  a  heavy  score  against  you. 
Where  were  you  at  the  Monday  Pop  ?  Where 
were  you  on  Tuesday  ?  Where  were  you  at 
the  Lamonts'  tennis  ?  I  was  looking  every- 
where. 

Capt.  G.  —  For  me !  Oh,  I  was  alive 
somewhere,  I  suppose.  {Aside.)  It's  for 
Minnie's  sake,  but  it's  going  to  be  dashed 
unpleasant. 

Mrs.  H.  —  Have  I  done  anything  to  offend 
you  ?  I  never  meant  it  if  I  have.  I  couldn't 
help  going  for  a  ride  with  the  Vaynor  man. 
It  was  promised  a  week  before  you  came  up. 

Capt.  G.  —  I  didn't  know  — 

Mrs.  H.  —  It  really  was. 


THE    TENTS  OF  KEDAR.  5 1 

Capt.  G.  —  Anything  about  it,  I  mean. 

Mrs.  H. — What  has  upset  you  to-day? 
All  these  days  ?  You  haven't  been  near  me 
for  four  whole  days  —  nearly  one  hundred 
hours.  Was  it  kind  of  you,  Pip  ?  And  I've 
been  looking  forward  so  much  to  your  coming. 

Capt.    G.  —  Have  you  ? 

Mrs.  H. — You  know  I  have  !  I've  been 
as  foolish  as  a  schoolgirl  about  it.  I  made  a 
little  calendar  and  put  it  in  my  card-case,  and 
every  time  the  twelve  o'clock  gun  went  off  I 
scratched  out  a  square  and  said;  —  "That 
brings  me  nearer  to  Pip.     My  Pip  !  " 

Capt.  G.  —  ( With  an  uneasy  laugh.) 
What  will  Mackler  think  if  you  neglect  him 
so  ? 

Mrs.  H.  —  And  it  hasn't  brought  you 
nearer.  You  seem  farther  away  than  ever. 
Are  you  sulking  about  something  ?  I  know 
your  temper. 

Capt.  G.  —  No. 

Mrs.  H.  —  Have  I  grown  old  in  the  last 
few  months,  then  ?  {Reaches  forward  to  dank 
of  flowers  for  menu- card?) 


52  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Partner  on  Left.  —  Allow  me.  {Hands 
menu-card.  Mrs.  H.  keeps  her  arm  at  full 
stretch  for  three  seconds^ 

Mrs.  H.  —  {To partner.)  Oh,  thanks.  I 
didn't  see.  {Turns  right  agai?i.)  Is  any- 
thing in  me  changed  at  all  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  For  Goodness'  sake  go  on  with 
your  dinner  !  You  must  eat  something.  Try 
one  of  those  cutlet  arrangements.  {Aside.) 
And  I  fancied  she  had  good  shoulders,  once 
upon  a  time  !  What  an  ass  a  man  can  make 
of  himself! 

Mrs.  H. —  {Helpiug  herself  to  a  paper 
frilU  seven  peas,  some  stamped  carrots  and  a 
spoonful  of  gravy?)  That  isn't  an  answer. 
Tell  we  whether  I  have  done  anything. 

Capt.  G.  —  {Aside ^  If  it  Isn't  ended 
here  there  will  be  a  ghastly  scene  somewhere 
else.  If  only  I'd  written  to  her  and  stood 
the  racket  —  at  long  range  !  (  To  khitmat- 
gar.)  Han !  Simpkin  do.  {Aloud.)  I'll 
tell  you  later  on. 

Mrs.  H.  —  Tell  me  now.  It  must  be  some 
foolish  misunderstanding,  and  you  know  that 


THE    TENTS  OF  KEDAR.  53 

there  was  to  be  nothing  of  that  sort  between 
us !  We,  of  all  people  in  the  world,  can't 
afford  it.  Is  it  the  Vaynor  man,  and  don't 
you  like  to  say  so  ?     On  my  honor  — 

Capt.  G.  —  I  haven't  given  the  Vaynor  man 
a  thought. 

Mrs.  H.  —  But  how  d'you  know  that  / 
haven't? 

Capt.  G. —  (^Aside.)  Here's  my  chance 
and  may  the  Devil  help  me  through  with  it. 
{Aloud  and  measuredly.)  Believe  me,  I  do 
not  care  how  often  or  how  tenderly  you  think 
of  the  Vaynor  man. 

Mrs.  H.  —  I  wonder  if  you  mean  that. — 
Oh,  what  is  the  good  of  squabbling  and  pre- 
tending to  misunderstand  when  you  are  only 
up  for  so  short  a  time  ?  Pip,  don't  be  a 
stupid ! 

Follows  a  pause,  during  which  he  crosses 
his  left  leg  over  his  right  and  continues  his 
dinner. 

Capt.  G.  —  {In  answer  to  the  thunderstorm 
in  her  eyes.)      Corns —  my  worst. 

Mrs.  H.  —  Upon  my  word,  you   are   the 


54  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

very  rudest  man  In  the  world  !  I'll  never  do 
it  again. 

Capt.  G.  —  (Aside.)  No,  I  don't  think 
you  will ;  but  I  wonder  what  you  will  do  be- 
fore it's  all  over.  (  To  khihnatgar?)  Thorah 
07ir  Simp  kin  do. 

Mrs.  H.  — Well !  Haven't  you  the  grace 
to  apologize,  bad  man  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  {Aside.)  I  mustn't  let  it  drift 
back  7tow.  Trust  a  woman  for  being  as  blind 
as  a  bat  when  she  won't  see. 

Mrs.  H.  —  I'm  waiting  :  or  would  you  like 
me  to  dictate  a  form  of  apology  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  (Desperately^  By  all  means 
dictate. 

Mrs.  W.  — (Lightly:)  Very  well.  Re- 
hearse your  several  Christian  names  after  me 
and  go  on  :  — "  Profess  my  sincere  repent- 
ance." 

Capt.  G.  —  "  Sincere  repentance." 

Mrs.  H.  —  "  For  having  behaved  —  " 

Capt.  G.  —  (Aside.)  At  last !  I  wish  to 
Goodness  she'd  look  away.  "  For  having  be- 
haved "  —  as  I    have   behaved,  and   declare 


THE    TENTS  OF  KEDAR.  55 

that  I  am  thoroughly  and  heartily  sick  of  the 
whole  business,  and  take  this  opportunity  of 
making  clear  my  intention  of  ending  it,  now, 
henceforward,  and  forever.  (Aside.)  If  any 
one  had  told  me  I  should  be  such  a  black- 
guard .  .  .  ! 

Mrs.  H.  —  (Shaking  a  spoonful  of  potato- 
chips  into  her  plate?)  That's  not  a  pretty 
joke. 

Capt.  G.  —  No.  It's  a  reality.  (Aside,) 
I  wonder  if  smashes  of  this  kind  are  always 
so  raw. 

Mrs.  H.  —  Really,  Pip,  you're  getting  more 
absurd  every  day. 

Capt.  G.  —  I  don't  think  you  quite  under- 
stand me.     Shall  I  repeat  it  ? 

Mrs.  H.  —  No  !  For  pity's  sake  don't  do 
that.     It's  too  terrible,  even  in  fun. 

Capt.  G.  — (Aside.)  I'll  let  her  think  it 
over  for  a  while.  But  I  ought  to  be  horse- 
whipped. 

Mrs.  H.  —  I  want  to  know  what  you  meant 
by  what  you  said  just  now. 

Capt.   G.  —  Exactly  what  I  said.     No  less. 


$6  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS, 

Mrs.  H. — But  what  have  I  done  to  de- 
serve It  ?     What  have  I  done  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  (Aside.)  If  she  only  wouldn't 
look  at  me.  (Aloud  and  very  slowly,  his  eyes 
on  his  plate.)  D'you  remember  that  even- 
ing In  July,  before  the  Rains  broke,  when 
you  said  that  the  end  would  have  to  come 
sooner  or  later  .  .  .  and  you  wondered  for 
which  of  us  it  would  come  first  ? 

Mrs.  H.  —  Yes!  I  was  only  joking. 
And  you  swore  that,  as  long  as  there  was 
breath  in  your  body,  it  should  never  come. 
And  I  believed  you. 

Capt.  G.  —  (Fingering  menu  -  card.) 
Well,  it  has.     That's  all. 

A  long  pause,  during  which  Mrs.  H.  boivs 
her  head  and  rolls  the  bread-twist  into  little 
pellets  :  G.  stares  at  the  oleanders. 

Mrs.  H.  —  (  Throwing  back  her  head  and 
laughing  naturally.)  They  train  us  women 
well,  don't  they,  Pip? 

Capt.  G. —  (Brutally,  touching  shirt-stud.) 
So  far  as  the  expression  goes.  (Aside.)  It 
isn't  in  her  nature  to  take  things  quietly. 
There'll  be  an  explosion  yet. 


THE    TENTS  OF  KEDAR.  5/ 

Mrs.  H. —  i^With  a  shudder?)  Thank 
you.  B-but  red  Indians  allow  people  to 
wriggle  when  they're  being  tortured,  I  be- 
lieve. {^Slips  fan  from  girdle  and  fans 
slowly  :  rim  of  fan  level  with  chin.) 

Partner  on  Left.  —  Very  close  to-night, 
isn't  it  ?     You  find  it  too  much  for  you  ? 

Mrs.  H.  —  Oh,  no,  not  in  the  least.  But 
they  really  ought  to  have  punkahs,  even  in 
your  cool  Naini  Tal,  oughtn't  they  ?  (  Turns, 
dropping  fan  and  raising  eyebrozus.) 

Capt.  G.  —  It's  all  right.  {Aside.)  Here 
comes  the  storm ! 

Mrs.  H.  —  {^Her  eyes  on  the  tablecloth  : 
fan  ready  in  right  hand.)  It  was  very 
cleverly  managed,  Pip,  and  I  congratulate 
you.  You  swore  —  you  never  contented 
yourself  with  merely  saying  a  thing  —  you 
swore  that,  as  far  as  lay  in  your  power,  you'd 
make  my  wretched  life  pleasant  for  me.  And 
you've  denied  me  the  consolation  of  break- 
ing down.  I  should  have  done  it  —  indeed 
I  should.  A  woman  would  hardly  have 
thought  of  this  refinement,  my  kind,  consid- 


58  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBVS. 

erate  friend.  (^Fan-guard  as  before,)  You 
have  explained  things  so  tenderly  and  truth- 
fully, too  !  You  haven't  spoken  or  written  a 
word  of  warning,  and  you  have  let  me  believe 
in  you  till  the  last  minute.  You  haven't  con- 
descended to  give  me  your  reason  yet.  No  ! 
A  woman  could  not  have  managed  it  half  so 
well.  Are  there  many  men  like  you  in  the 
world  ^. 

Caff.  G.  —  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  (  To 
khitmatgar ?)     Ohe  !     Simpkin  do, 

Mrs.  H.  —  You  call  yourself  a  man  of  the 
world,  don't  you  ?  Do  men  of  the  world 
behave  like  Devils  when  they  do  a  woman 
the  honor  to  get  tired  of  her  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Don't 
speak  so  loud  ! 

Mrs.  H.  —  Keep  us  respectable,  O  Lord, 
whatever  happens  !  Don't  be  afraid  of  my 
compromising  you.  You've  chosen  your 
ground  far  too  well,  and  I've  been  properly 
brought  up.  (^Lowering  fan.)  Haven't 
you  any  pity,  Pip,  except  for  yourself? 

Capt.    G.  —  Wouldn't    it    be    rather    im- 


^ 


THE    TENTS  OF  KEDAR.  $9 

pertinent  of  me  to  say  that  I'm  sorry  for 
you  ? 

Mrs.  H.  —  I  think  you  have  said  it  once 
or  twice  before.  You're  growing  very  care- 
ful of  my  feeHngs.  My  God,  Pip,  I  was  a 
good  woman  once  !  You  said  I  was. 
You've  made  me  what  I  am.  What  are  you 
going  to  do  with  me  ?.  What  are  you  going 
to  do  with  me  ?  Won't  you  say  that  you  are 
sorry  ?     i^Helps  herself  to  iced  asparagus?) 

Capt.  G.  —  I  am  sorry  for  you,  if  you 
want  the  pity  of  such  a  brute  as  I  am.  I'm 
aw  fly  sorry  for  you. 

Mrs.  H.  —  Rather  tame  for  a  man  of  the 
world.  Do  you  think  that  that  admission 
clears  you  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  What  can  I  do  ?  I  can  only 
tell  you  what  I  think  of  myself.  You  can  t 
think  worse  than  that  ? 

Mrs.  H.  —  Oh,  yes,  I  can !  And  now, 
will  you  tell  me  the  reason  of  all  this  ? 
Remorse  ?  Has  Bayard  been  suddenly  con- 
science-stricken ? 

Capt.  G.  —  (^Angrily,  his  eyes  still  low- 


60  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBVS. 

ered,)  —  No!  The  thing  has  come  to  an 
end  on  my  side.     That's  all.     Mafisch  ! 

Mrs.  H.  — ''That's  all.  Mafisch!''  As 
though  I  were  a  Cairene  Dragoman.  You 
used  to  make  prettier  speeches.  D  you 
remember  when  you  said  .  .  .  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  For  Heaven's  sake  don't  bring 
that  back !  Call  me  anything  you  like  and 
I'll  admit  It  — 

Mrs.  H.  —  But  you  don't  care  to  be  re- 
minded of  old  lies?  If  I  could  hope  to  hurt 
you  one-tenth  as  much  as  you  have  hurt  me 
to-night  .  .  .  No,  I  wouldn't  —  I  couldn't  do 
it  —  liar  though  you  are. 

Capt.  G.  —  I've  spoken  the  truth. 

Mrs.  H.  —  yiy  dear  Sir,  you  flatter  your- 
self. You  have  lied  over  the  reason.  Pip, 
remember  that  I  know  you  as  you  don't 
know  yourself.  Vou  have  been  everything 
to  me,  though  you  are  .  .  .  {^Fan- guard?) 
Oh,  what  a  contemptible  Thing  it  is  !  And 
so  you  are  merely  tired  of  me  ? 

Capt.  G.  — -  Since  you  insist  upon  my  re- 
peating it  —  Yes. 


THE    TENTS  OF  KEDAR.  6 1 

Mrs.  H.  —  Lie  the  first.  I  wish  I  knew  a 
coarser  word.  Lie  seems  so  ineffectual  in 
your  case.  The  fire  has  just  died  out  and 
there  is  no  fresh  one  ?  Think  for  a  minute, 
Pip,  if  you  care  whether  I  despise  you  more 
than  I  do.     Simply  Mafisch,  is  it  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  Yes.  (^Aside.)  I  think  I 
deserve  this. 

Mrs.  H.  —  Lie  number  two.  Before  the 
next  glass  chokes  you,  tell  me  her  name. 

Capt.  G.  —  {Aside.)  I'll  make  her  pay 
for  dragging  Minnie  into  the  business ! 
{Aloud.)     Is  it  likely? 

Mrs.  H.  —  Very  likely  if  you  thought  that 
it  would  flatter  your  vanity.  You'd  cry  my 
name  on  the  housetops  to  make  people  turn 
round. 

Capt.  G.  —  I  wish  I  had.  There  would 
have  been  an  end  of  this  business. 

Mrs.  H.  —  Oh,  no,  there  would  not  .  .  . 
xA.nd  so  you  were  going  to  be  virtuous  and 
blase,  were  you  ?  To  come  to  me  and  say  : 
—  ''I've  done  with  you.  The  incident  is 
clo-osed."  I  ought  to  be  proud  of  having 
kept  such  a  man  so  long. 


62  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Capt.  G.  —  (Aside.)  It  only  remains  to 
pray  for  the  end  of  the  dinner.  (Aloud,) 
You  know  what  I  think  of  myself. 

Mrs.  H.  —  As  it's  the  only  person  in  the 
world  you  ever  do  think  of,  and  as  I  know 
your  mind  thoroughly,  I  do.  You  want  to 
get  it  all  over  and  .  .  .  Oh,  I  can't  keep  you 
back  !  And  you're  going  —  think  of  it,  Pip 
—  to  throw  me  over  for  another  woman. 
And  you  swore  that  all  other  women  were 
.  .  .  Pip,  my  Pip  !  She  cafit  care  for  you  as 
I  do.  Believe  me,  she  can't !  Is  it  any  one 
that  I  know  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  Thank  Goodness  it  isn't. 
(Aside ^  I  expected  a  cyclone,  but  not  an 
earthquake. 

Mrs.  H.  —  ?i\i^  cant  !  Is  there  anything 
that  I  wouldn't  do  for  you  —  or  haven't  done  ? 
And  to  think  that  I  should  take  this  trouble 
over  you,  knowing  what  you  are  !  Do  you 
despise  me  for  it  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  (  Wiping  his  mouth  to  hide  a 
smile.)  Again  ?  It's  entirely  a  work  of 
charity  on  your  part 


THE   TENTS  OF  KEDAR.  63 

Mrs.  H.  — Ahhh  !  But  I  have  no  right  to 
resent  it.  .  .  .  Is  she  better-looking  than  I  ? 
Who  was  it  said  —  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  No  —  not  that ! 

Mrs.  H.  —  I'll  be  more  merciful  than  you 
were.  Don't  you  know  that  all  women  are 
alike  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  {Aside?)  Then  this  is  the  ex- 
ception that  proves  the  rule. 

Mrs.  W.  —  AU  of  them!  I'll  tell  you 
anything  you  like.  I  will,  upon  my  word  ! 
They  only  want  the  admiration  —  from  any- 
body —  no  matter  who  —  anybody  !  But 
there  is  always  one  man  that  they  care  for 
more  than  any  one  else  in  the  world,  and 
would  sacrifice  all  the  others  to.  Oh,  do  lis- 
ten !  I've  kept  the  Vaynor  man  trotting  after 
me  like  a  poodle,  and  he  believes  that  he  is 
the  only  man  I  am  interested  in.  I'll  tell 
you  what  he  said  to  me. 

Capt.  G.  —  Spare  him.  {Aside.)  I  won- 
der what  his  version  is. 

Mrs.  H.  —  He's  been  waiting  for  me  to 
look   at    him    all    through   dinner.      Shall  I 


64  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

do  it,  and  you  can  see  what  an  idiot  he 
looks  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  "  But  what  imports  the  nomi- 
nation of  this  gentleman  ?  " 

Mrs.  H.  —  Watch  !  {Sends  a  glance  to 
the  Vaynor  man,  who  tries  vainly  to  combine 
a  mouthful  of  ice-puddi?ig,  a  smirk  of  self 
satisfactio7iy  a  glare  of  intense  devotion^  and 
the  stolidity  of  a  British  dining  countenance?) 

Capt.  G.  —  (  Critically?)  He  doesn't  look 
pretty.  Why  didn't  you  wait  till  the  spoon 
was  out  of  his  mouth  ? 

Mrs.  H.  —  To  amuse  you.  She'll  make  an 
exhibition  of  you  as  I've  made  of  him  ;  and 
people  will  laugh  at  you.  Oh,  Pip,  can't  you 
see  that  ?  It's  as  plain  as  the  noonday  sun. 
You'll  be  trotted  about  and  told  lies,  and  made 
a  fool  of  like  the  others.  /  never  made  a 
fool  of  you,  did  I  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  {Aside.)  What  a  clever  little 
woman  it  is ! 

Mrs.  H.  — Well,  what  have  you  to  say  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  I  feel  better. 

Mrs.  H. —  Yes,  I  suppose  so,  after  I  have 


THE   TENTS  OF  KEDAR.  65 

come  down  to  your  level.  I  couldn't  have 
done  it  if  I  hadn't  cared  for  you  so  much.  1 
have  spoken  the  truth. 

Capt.  G.  —  It  doesn't  alter  the  situation. 

Mrs.  H.  —  (^Passionately?)  Then  she  has 
said  that  she  cares  for  you  !  Don't  believe 
her,  Pip.    It's  a  lie  —  as  black  as  yours  to  me  ! 

Capt.  G.  —  Ssssteady  !  I've  a  notion  that 
a  friend  of  yours  is  looking  at  you. 

Mrs.  H.  —  He  !  I  hate  him.  He  introduced 
you  to  me. 

Capt.  G.  —  (^Aside.)  And  some  people 
would  like  women  to  assist  in  making  the 
laws.  Introduction  to  imply  condonement. 
(^Aloud.)  Well,  you  see,  if  you  can  reraem- 
ber  so  far  back  as  that,  I  couldn't,  in  common 
politeness,  refuse  the  offer. 

Mrs.  H.  —  In  common  politeness  !  We 
have  got  beyond  that  I 

Caff.  G.  —  {^Aside.)  Old  ground  means 
fresh  trouble.      (A/oud.)     On  my  honor  — 

Mrs.  H.  —  Your  ivhat  ?     Ha,  ha  ! 

Capt.  G.  —  Dishonor,  then.  She's  not 
what  you  imagine.     I  meant  to  — 


^  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Mrs.  H.  —  Don't  tell  me  anything  about 
her !  She  'wont  care  for  you,  and  when  you 
come  back,  after  having  made  an  exhibition 
of  yourself,  you'll  find  me  occupied  with  — 

Capt.  G.  —  (^Insolently.)  You  couldn't 
while  I  am  alive.  {Aside.)  If  that  doesn't 
bring  her  pride  to  her  rescue,  nothing  will. 

Mrs.  H. —  (^Drawing-  herself  up.)  Couldn't 
do  it?  J?  i^Softenmg^  You're  right.  I 
don't  believe  I  could  —  though  you  are  what 
you  are  —  a  coward  and  a  liar  in  grain. 

Capt.  G.  —  It  doesn't  hurt  so  much  after 
your  little  lecture  —  with  demonstrations. 

Mrs.  H.  —  One  mass  of  vanity!  Will 
nothing  ever  touch  you  in  this  life  ?  There 
must  be  a  Hereafter  if  it's  only  for  the  bene- 
fit of  .  .  .  But  you  will  have  it  all  to  your- 
self. 

Capt.  G.  —  {^Under  his  eyebrows.)  Are 
you  so  certain  of  that  ? 

Mrs.  H.  —  I  shall  have  had  mine  in  this 
life  ;  and  it  will  serve  me  right. 

Capt.  G.  —  But  the  admiration  that  you 
insisted  on  so  strongly  a  moment  ago  ? 
{Aside.)     Oh,  I  am  a  brute  ! 


THE   TENTS   OF  KEDAR.  6/ 

Mrs.  H. —  (^Fiercely).  Will  that  console 
me  for  knowing  that  you  will  go  to  her  with 
the  same  words,  the  same  arguments,  and 
the  —  the  same  pet  names  you  used  to  me  ? 
And  if  she  cares  for  you,  you  two  will  laugh 
over  my  story.  Won't  that  be  punishment 
heavy  enough  even  for  me  —  even  for  me  ? 
.  .  .  And  it's  all  useless.  That's  another 
punishment. 

Capt.  G.  —  {^Feebly?)  Oh,  come !  I'm 
not  so  low  as  you  think. 

Mrs.  H.  —  Not  now,  perhaps,  but  you  will 
be.  Oh,  Pip,  if  a  woman  flatters  your  vanity, 
there's  nothing  on  earth  that  you  would  not 
tell  her ;  and  no  meanness  that  you  would 
not  do.  Have  I  known  you  so  long  without 
knowing  that  ? 

Caff.  G.  —  If  you  can  trust  me  in  nothing 
else  —  and  I  don't  see  why  1  should  be 
trusted  —  you  can  count  upon  my  holding 
my  tongue. 

Mrs.  H.  —  If  you  denied  everything  you've 
said  this  evening  and  declared  it  was  all  in 
fun    {a    long  pause),    I'd    trust    you.     Not 


68  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Otherwise.  All  I  ask  Is,  don't  tell  her  my 
name.  Please  don't.  A  man  might  forget : 
a  woman  never  would.  (^Looks  up  table  and 
sees  hostess  beginning  to  collect  eyes.)  So  it's 
all  ended,  through  no  fault  of  mine.  .  .  . 
Haven't  I  behaved  beautifully?  I've  ac- 
cepted your  dismissal,  and  you  managed  it  as 
cruelly  as  you  could,  and  I  have  made  you 
respect  my  sex,  haven't  I  ?  {^Arranging 
gloves  a?td  fan,)  I  only  pray  that  she'll 
know  you  some  day  as  I  know  you  now.  I 
wouldn't  be  you  then,  for  I  think  even  your 
conceit  will  be  hurt.  I  hope  she'll  pay  you 
back  the  humiliation  you've  brought  on  me. 
I  hope  .  .  .  No.  I  don't.  I  cant  give  you 
up  !  I  must  have  something  to  look  forward 
to  or  I  shall  go  crazy.  When  it's  all  over, 
come  back  to  me,  come  back  to  me,  and  you'll 
find  that  you're  my  Pip  still ! 

Capt.  G. —  {^Voy  clearly.)  'False  move, 
and  you  pay  for  It.     It's  a  girl  ! 

Mrs.  H. —  (^Rising.)  Then  it  zuas  true! 
They  said  .  .  .  but  I  wouldn't  insult  you  by 
asking.     A  girl !  /  was  a  girl  not  very  long 


THE    TENTS   OF  KEDAR.  69 

ago.  Be  good  to  her,  Pip.  I  dare  say  she 
believes  in  you. 

Goes  out  with  an  uncertain  smile.  He 
watches  her  through  the  door,  and  settles  into 
a  chair  as  the  men  redistribute  themselves. 

Capt.  G.  —  Now,  if  there  is  any  Power  who 
looks  after  this  world,  will  He  kindly  tell  me 
what  I  have  done  ?  (^Reaching  out  for  the 
claret,  and  half  aloiid.)     What  have  -I  done  ? 

CURTAIN. 


WITH   ANY  AMAZEMENT. 


"  And  are  not  afraid  with  any  amazement." 

Marriage  Service. 

Scene.  —  A  bachelor  s  bedroom  —  toilet-table 
arranged  with  unnatural  neatness.  Cap- 
tain Gadsby  asleep  and  snoring  heavily. 
Time,  10.30  a.  m.  —  a  glorious  autum7i  day 
at  Simla.  Enter  delicately  Captaiii  Maf- 
flin  of  Gadsby  s  regiment.  Looks  at 
sleeper,  and  shakes  his  head  min'inuring 
"  Poor  Gaddy!'  Performs  violent  faiitasi a 
with  hair-brushes  on  chair-back. 

Capt.  M.  —  Wake  up,  my  sleeping  beauty  ! 
{Howls.) 

*'  Uprouse  ye,  then,  my  merry  merry  men  ! 

It  is  our  opening  day  ! 

It  is  our  opening  da-ay  !  " 
70 


WITH  ANY  A  MA  ZEMEN  T.  7 1 

Gaddy,  the  little  dicky-birds  have  been  bill- 
ing and  cooing  for  ever  so  long ;  and  I'm 
here ! 

Capi\  G. —  (^Sitting  up  and  yawning^ 
'Mornin'.  This  is  awfly  good  of  you,  old 
fellow.  Most  awfly  good  of  you.  'Don't 
know  what  I  should  do  without  you.  'Pon 
my  soul,  I  don't.  'Haven't  slept  a  wink  all 
night. 

Capt.  M.  —  I  didn't  get  in  till  half-past 
eleven.  'Had  a  look  at  you  then,  and  you 
seemed  to  be  sleeping  as  soundly  as  a  con- 
demned criminal. 

Capt.  G.  —  Jack,  if  you  want  to  make  those 
disgustingly  worn-out  jokes,  you'd  better  go 
away.  (  With  portentous  gravity^  It's  the 
happiest  day  in  my  life. 

Capt.  M.  —  ( Chuckling  grimly^  Not  by 
a  very  long  chalk,  my  son.  You're  going 
through  some  of  the  most  refined  torture 
you've  ever  known.  But  be  calm,  /am  with 
you.     'Shun !     Dress ! 

Capt.  G.  —  Eh  !     Wha-at  ? 

Capt.  M.  —  Do  you  suppose  that  you  are 


Jl  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

your  own  master  for  the  next  twelve  hours  ? 
If  you  ^(^,  of  course  .  .  .  (^Makes  for  the  door ^ 

Capt.  G.  —  No  !  For  Goodness'  sake,  old 
man,  don't  do  that !  You'll  see  me  through, 
won't  you  ?  I've  been  mugging  up  that 
beastly  drill,  and  can't  remember  a  line  of  it. 

Capt.  M.  —  (  Overhauling  G!s  uniform?) 
Go  and  tub.  Don't  bother  me.  I'll  give  you 
ten  minutes  to  dress  in. 

Interval,  filled  by  the  noise  as  of  a  healthy 
grampus  splashing  in  the  bath-room, 

Capt.  G.  —  (^Emerging  from  dressing- 
room?)     What  time  is  it  ? 

Capt.  M.  —  Nearly  eleven. 

Capt.  G.  —  Five  hours  more.     O  Lord  ! 

Capt.  M.  —  {Aside.)  'First  sign  of  funk, 
that.  'Wonder  if  it's  going  to  spread. 
{Aloud.)     Come  along  to  breakfast. 

Capt.  G.  —  I  can't  eat  anything.  I  don't 
want  any  breakfast. 

Capt.  M.  —  {Aside.)  So  early  !  {Aloud.) 
Captain  Gadsby,  I  order  you  to  eat  breakfast, 
and  a  dashed  good  breakfast,  too.  None  of 
your  bridal  airs  and  graces  with  me ! 


I 


WITH  ANY  AMAZEMENT.  73 

Leads  G.  downstairs,  and  stands  over  him 
while  he  eats  two  chops. 

Capt.  G.  —  (  Who  has  looked  at  his  watch 
thrice  in  the  last  five  minutes^  What  time 
is  it? 

Capt.  M. — Time  to  come  for  a  walk. 
Light  up. 

Capt.  G.  —  I  haven't  smoked  for  ten  days, 
and  I  won't  noiv.  (  Takes  cheroot  which  M. 
has  cut  for  him,  and  blows  smoke  through  his 
nose  luxuriously?)  We  aren't  going  down 
the  Mall,  are  we  ? 

Capt.  M.  —  (Aside.)  They're  all  alike  in 
these  stages.  (Aloud.)  No,  my  Vestal. 
We're  going  along  the  quietest  road  we  can 
find. 

Capt.  G.     Any  chance  of  seeing  Her  ? 

Capt.  M.  —  Innocent !  No  !  Come  along, 
and,  if  you  want  me  for  the  final  obsequies, 
don't  cut  my  eye  out  with  your  stick. 

Capt.  G.  —  (Spinning  round.)  I  say,  isn't 
She  the  dearest  creature  that  ever  walked  ? 
What's  the  time?  What  comes  after*' wilt 
thou  take  this  woman  ?  " 


74  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Capt.  M.  —  You  go  for  the  ring.  R'clect 
it'll  be  on  the  top  of  my  right-hand  little  fin- 
ger, and  just  be  careful  how  you  draw  it  off, 
because  I  shall  have  the  Verger's  fees  some- 
where In  my  glove. 

Capt.    G.  —  (  Walking  forward  hastily?) 

D the  Verger  !     Come  along  !     It's  past 

twelve,  and  I  haven't  seen  Her  since  yester- 
day evening.  {Spinning  round  again.^ 
She's  an  absolute  angel,  Jack,  and  She's  a 
dashed  deal  too  good  for  me.  Look  here, 
does  She  come  up  the  aisle  on  my  arm,  or 
how? 

Capt.  M.  —  If  I  thought  that  there  was  the 
least  chance  of  your  remembering  anything 
for  two  consecutive  minutes,  I'd  tell  you. 
Stop  passaging  about  like  that ! 

Capt.  G.  —  {Halting  in  the  middle  of  the 
road.)     I  say.  Jack. 

Capt.  M.  —  Keep  quiet  for  another  ten 
minutes  if  you  can,  you  lunatic,  and  walk! 

The  two  tramp  at  five  miles  an  hour  for 
fifteen  minutes. 

Capt.  G.  —  What's  the  time  ?     How  about 


WITH  ANY  AMAZEMENT.  75 

that  cursed  wedding-cake  and  the  sHppers  ? 
They  don't  throw  'em  about  in  church,  do 
they? 

Capt.  M.  —  In-varlably.  The  Padre  leads 
off  with  his  boots. 

Caff.  G.  —  Confound  your  silly  soul ! 
Don't  make  fun  of  me.  I  can't  stand  it,  and 
I  won't ! 

Capt.  M. —  {Untroubled^)  So-ooo,  old 
horse  !  You'll  have  to  sleep  for  a  couple  of 
hours  this  afternoon. 

Capt.  G. —  {Spinning  round?)  I'm  not 
going  to  be  treated  like  a  dashed  child. 
Understand  that ! 

Cai't.  M.  —  (Aside.)  Nerves  gone  to 
fiddle-strings.  What  a  day  we're  having ! 
(  Tender /y  putting  his  hand  on  G!s  shoul- 
der?) My  David,  how  long  have  you  known 
this  Jonathan  ?  Would  I  come  up  here  to 
make  a  fool  of  you  —  after  all  these  years? 

Capt.  G.  —  {Penitently?)  I  know,  I  know, 
Jack  —  but  I'm  as  upset  as  I  can  be.  Don't 
mind  what  I  say.  Just  hear  me  run  through 
the  drill  and  see  if  I've  got  it  all  right :  -^     ^ 


^6  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

''  To  have  and  to  hold  for  better  or  worse, 
as  it  was  in  the  beginning,  is  now,  and  ever 
shall  be,  world  without  end,  so  help  me  God. 
—  Amen." 

Capt.  M.  —  {Suffocating  with  suppressed 
laughter.)  Yes.  That's  about  the  gist  of  it. 
I'll  prompt  if  you  get  into  a  hat. 

Capt.  G.  —  {Earnestly.)  Yes,  you'll 
stick  by  me,  Jack,  won't  you?  I'm  awf'ly 
happy,  but  1  don't  mind  telling  you  that  I'm 
in  a  blue  funk ! 

Capt.  M. —  {Gravely.)  Are  you?  I 
should  never  have  noticed  it.  You  don't 
look  like  it. 

Caft.  G.  — Don't  I?  Thafs  all  right. 
{Spinning  round.)  On  my  soul  and  honor, 
Jack,  She's  the  sweetest  little  angel  that  ever 
came  down  from  the  sky.  There  isn't  a 
woman  on  earth  fit  to  speak  to  Her  ! 

Capt.  M.  —  {Aside.)  And  this  is  old 
Gaddy!  {Aloud.)  Go  on  if  it  relieves 
you. 

Capt.  G.  - —  You  can  laugh  !  That's  all 
you  wild  asses  of  bachelors  are  fit  for. 


WITH  ANY  AMAZEMENT.  77 

Capt.  M.  —  {Drawling.^  You  nevei 
would  wait  for  the  troop  to  come  up.  You 
aren't  quite  married  yet,  y'know. 

Capt.  G.  —  Ugh !  That  reminds  me. 
I  don't  beHeve  I  shall  be  able  to  get  into  vny 
boots.  Let's  go  home  and  try  'em  on ! 
(^Hurries  forward.) 

Capt.  M.  —  'Wouldn't  be  in  yotir  shoes  for 
anything  that  Asia  has  to  offer. 

Capt.  G. —  (^Spinning  routid.)  That  just 
shows  your  hideous  blackness  of  soul  — 
your  dense  stupidity  —  your  brutal  narrow- 
mindedness.  There's  only  one  fault  about 
you.  You're  the  best  of  good  fellows,  and 
I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  with- 
out you,  but —  you  aren't  married.  (^Wags 
h  is  he  a  d  gravely, )     Take  a  w  i  fe ,  J  ack . 

Capt.  M.  —  ( With  a  face  like  a  wall?) 
Ya-as.     Whose  for  choice  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  If  you're  going  to  be  a  black- 
guard, I'm  going  on  .  .  .  What's  the  time  ? 

Capt.  M.  {Hums)  — 

"  An'  since  'tv/as  very  clear  we  drank  only  ginger-beer, 
Faith,  there  must  ha'  been  some  stingo  in  the  ginger." 


yS  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Come  back,  you  maniac.  I'm  going  to 
take  you  home,  and  you're  going  to  lie 
down. 

Capt.  G. — What  on  earth  do  I  want  to 
He  down  for  ? 

Capt.  M.  —  Give  me  a  Hght  from  your 
cheroot  and  see. 

Capt.  G.  —  (  Watching  cheroot-butt  quiver 
like  a  tuning-fork^     Sweet  state  I'm  in  ! 

Capt.  M.  —  You  are.  I'll  get  you  a  peg 
and  you'll  go  to  sleep. 

They  return  and  M.  compounds  a  four- 
finger  peg. 

Capt.  G.  —  O,  bus  !  bus  !  It'll  make  me 
as  drunk  as  an  owl. 

Capt.  M.  —  'Curious  thing,  'twont  have  the 
slightest  effect  on  you.  Drink'  it  off,  chuck 
yourself  down  there,  and  go  to  bye-bye. 

Capt.  G.  —  It's  absurd.  I  shan't  sleep. 
I  k?iow  I  sha  n't ! 

Falls  into  heavy  doze  at  e?id  of  seveji  min- 
utes,    Capt.  M.  watches  him  tenderly. 

Capt.  M.  —  Poor  old  Gaddy !  I've  seen  a 
few  turned   off  before,  but  never  one  who 


WITH  ANY  AMAZEMENT,  79 

went  to  the  gallows  in  this  condition.  'Can't 
tell  how 'it  affects  'em,  though.  It's  the 
thoroughbreds  that  sweat  when  they're 
backed  into  double-harness.  .  .  .  And  that's 
the  man  who  went  through  the  guns  at 
Amdheran  like  a  devil  possessed  of  devils. 
{Lea7is  over  G.)  But  this  is  worse  than  the 
guns,  old  pal  —  worse  than  the  guns,  isn't 
it  ?  (G.  turns  ifi  his  sleep,  mid  M.  touches 
him  clumsily  on  the  forehead.)  Poor,  dear 
old  Gaddy !  Going  like  the  rest  of  'em  — 
going  like  the  rest  of  'em  .  .  .  Friend  that 
sticketh  closer  than  a  brother  .  .  .  eight 
years.  Dashed  bit  of  a  slip  of  a  girl  .  .  . 
eight  weeks  !  And  —  where's  your  friend  ? 
(^Smokes  disconsolately  till  church  clock 
strikes  three?) 

Capt.  M.  —  Up  with  you  !  Get  into  your 
kit. 

Capt.  G.  —  Already  ?  Isn't  It  too  soon  ? 
Hadn't  I  better  have  a  shave  ? 

Capt.  M.  —  No  I  You're  all  right. 
(^Aside.)      He'd  chip  his  chin  to  pieces. 

Capt.  G.  —  What's  the  hurry? 


80  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Capt.  M.  —  You've  got  to  be  there  first. 

Capt.  G.  —  To  be  stared  at  ? 

Capt.  M.  —  Exactly.  You're  part  of  the 
show.  Where's  the  burnisher  ?  Your  spurs 
are  in  a  shameful  state. 

Capt.  G.  —  {Gruffly.)  Jack,  I  be  damned 
if  you  shall  do  that  for  me. 

Capt.  M.  —  {More  gruffly.)  Dry  up  and 
get  dressed !  If  I  choose  to  clean  your 
spurs,  you're  under  my  orders. 

Capt.  G.  dresses,     ^.follows  suit. 

Capt.  M.  —  {Critically,  walking-  round.) 
M'yes,  you'll  do.  Only  don't  look  so  like  a 
criminal.  Ring,  gloves,  fees  —  that's  all 
right  for  me.  Let  your  mustache  alone. 
Now,  if  the  tats  are  ready,  we'll  go. 

Capt.  G.  —  {Nervously.)  It's  much  too 
soon.  Let's  light  up !  Let's  have  a  peg  ! 
Let's  — 

Capt.  M.  —  Let's  make  bally  asses  of  our- 
selves. 

Bells.  —  (  Without.) 

Good  —  peo  —  pie  —  all 
To  prayers  —  we  call. 


WITH  AAV  AMAZEMENT.  8l 

Capt,  M.  —  There  go  the  bells  !  Come 
on  —  unless  you'd   rather  not.      (  They  ride 

off) 

Bells.  — 

We  honor  the  King 
And  Bride's  joy  do  bring  — 
Good  tidings  we  tell 
And  ring  the  Dead's  knell. 

Capt.  G.  —  (^Dismounting  at  the  door  of 
the  Church^  I  say,  aren't  we  much  too 
soon  ?  There  are  no  end  of  people  inside. 
I  say,  aren't  we  much  too  late  ?  Stick  by  me, 
Jack  !     What  the  devil  do  I  do  ? 

Capt.  M.  —  Strike  an  attitude  at  the  head 
of  the  aisle  and  wait  for  Her.  (G.  groans 
as  M.  zvheels  hint  ifito  position  before  three 
hundred  eyes.) 

Capt.  M.  —  (^hnploiingly?)  Gaddy,  if 
you  love  me,  for  pity's  sake,  for  the  Honor  of 
the  Regiment,  stand  up  !  Chuck  yourself 
into  your  uniform  !  Look  like  a  man  !  I've 
got  to  speak  to  the  Padre  a  minute.  (G. 
breaks  into  a  gentle  perspiration^     If  you 


82  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

wipe  your  face  I'll  never  be  your  best  man 
again.     Stand  up!     (G.  trembles  visibly?) 

Capt.  M.  —  {Returning.)  She's  coming 
now.  Look  out  when  the  music  starts. 
There's  the  organ  beginning  to  clack. 

Bride  steps  out  of  'rickshaw  at  Church 
door,  G.  catches  a  glimpse  of  her  and  takes 
heart. 

Organ. —  {Diapason  and  bourdon?) 

The  Voice  that  breathed  o'er  Eden, 

That  earliest  marriage  day, 
The  primal  marriage  blessing, 

It  hath  not  passed  away. 

Capt.  M.  —  (  Watching  G.)  By  Jove  ! 
He  is  looking  well.  'Didn't  think  he  had  it 
in  him. 

CArr.  G.  —  How  long  does  this  hymn  go 
on  for? 

Capt.  M.  —  It  will  be  over  directly. 
{Anxiously?)  Beginning  to  bleach  and  gulp  ? 
Hold  on,  Gaddy,  and  think  o*  the  Regiment. 

Cait.  G.  —  {Measuredly.)  I  say,  there's 
a  big  brown  lizard  crawling  up  that  wall. 


WITH  ANY  AMAZEMENT,  83 

Capt.  M.  —  My  Sainted  Mother  !  The  last 
stage  of  collapse ! 

Bride  comes  up  to  left  of  altar,  lifts  her 
eyes  once  to  G.,  who  is  suddenly  smitten  mad. 

Capt.  G. —  {To  himself  agaift  and  again.) 
Little  Featherweight's  a  woman  —  a  woman  ! 
And  I  thought  she  was  a  little  girl. 

Capt.  M.  —  {In  a  zvhisper.)  From  the 
halt  —  inward  wheel. 

Capt.  G.  obeys  mechanically  and  the  cere- 
mony proceeds. 

Padre.  —  ...  only  unto  her  as  long  as 
ye  both  shall  live  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  {His  throat  useless?)  Ha  — 
hmmm  ! 

Capt.  M.  —  Say  you  will  or  you  won't. 
There's  no  second  deal  here. 

Bride  gives  response  with  perfect  coolness ^ 
and  is  given  away  by  the  father. 

Capt.  G.  —  (  Thinkittg  to  show  his  learn- 
ing.)    Jack,  give  me  away  now,  qtiick  I 

Caff.  M.  —  You've  given  yourself  away 
quite  enoueh.  Her  rizht  hand,  man  !  Re- 
jfjeat !  Repeat!  "Theodore  Philip."  Have 
you  forgotten  your  own  name  } 


84  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Capt.  G.  stumbles  through  Affirinatio7i^ 
which  IhHde  repeats  without  a  tremor. 

Capt.  M.  —  Now  the  ring !  Follow  the 
Padre  !  Don't  pull  off  my  glove  !  Here  it 
is  !      Great  Cupid,  he's  found  his  voice  ! 

G.  repeats  Troth  i^i  a  voice  to  be  heard  to 
the  end  of  the  Church  and  turns  on  his  heel. 

Capt.  M.  —  (^Desperately?)  Rein  back  ! 
Back  to  your  troop  !     Tisn't  half  legal  yet. 

Padre.  —  ...  joined  together  let  no  man 
put  asunder. 

Capt.  G.  paralyzed  with  fear,  jibs  after 
Blessing. 

Capt.  M. —  (^Quickly.)  On  your  own 
front  —  one  length.  Take  her  with  you.  I 
don't  come.  You've  nothing  to  say.  (Capt. 
G.  jingles  up  to  altar.) 

Capt.  M.  —  (/;^  a  piercing  rattle  meant  to 
be  a  whisper?)  Kneel,  you  stiff-necked  ruf- 
fian !     Kneel ! 

Padre.  —  ...  whose  daughters  ye  are,  so 
long  as  ye  do  well  and  are  not  afraid  with 
any  amazement. 

Caff.  M.  —  Dismiss!  Break  off!  Left 
wheel ! 


WITH  ANY  AMAZEMENT,  85 

All  troop  to  vestry.      They  sign. 

Capt.  M.  —  Kiss  Her,  Gaddy. 

Capt.  G.  —  {Rubbifig  the  ink  into  his 
glove ^     Eh  !     Wha  —  at  ? 

Capt.  M.  —  {Taking  one  pace  to  Bride.^ 
If  you  don't,  I  shall. 

Capt.  G. —  {^Interposifig  an  arm?)  Not 
this  journey ! 

General  kissing,  in  which  Capt.  G.  is  pur- 
sued by  unknown  fe^nale. 

QkYY.  G. —  {^Faintly  to  M.)  This  Is  Hades  ! 
Can  I  wipe  my  face  now  ? 

Capt.  M.  —  My  responsibility  has  ended. 
Better  ask  Missis  Gadsby. 

Capt.  G.  winces  as  if  shot  and  procession  is 
Mendelssohned  out  of  Church  to  paternal 
roof,  where  usual  tortures  take  place  over 
the  wedding-cake. 

Capt.  M.  — {At  table?)  Up  with  you, 
Gaddy.     They  expect  a  speech. 

CAFr.  G.  —  {After  three  mifiutes'  agony. ^ 
Ha  —  hmmm.      (  Thunders  of  applause?) 

Caff.  M.  —  Doocid  good,  for  a  first  at- 
tempt.    Now  go  and  change  your  kit  while 


86  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Mamma  Is  weeping  over  —  "the  Missus." 
(Capt.  G.  disappears.  Capt.  M.  starts  up 
tearing  his  hair.)  It's  not  half  legal.  Where 
are  the  shoes  ?     Get  an  ayah. 

Ayah.  —  Missle  Captain  Sahib  done  gone 
band  karo  all  the  jiitis. 

Caff.  M.  —  (^Brandishing  scabbarded 
sword?)  Woman,  produce  those  shoes ! 
Some  one  lend  me  a  bread-knife.  We  mustn't 
crack  Gaddy's  head  more  than  it  is.  (Slices 
heel  off  white  satin  slipper  and  puts  slipper 
tip  his  sleeve?)  Where  is  the  Bride?  (77? 
the  company  at  large?)  Be  tender  with  that 
rice.  It's  a  heathen  custom.  Give  me  the 
big  bag. 

Bride  slips  out  quietly  into  'rickshaw  and 
departs  towards  the  sunset. 

Capt.  M.  —  {^hi  the  operi?)  Stole  away,  by 
Jove  !  So  much  the  worse  for  Gaddy  !  Here 
he  is.  Now,  Gaddy,  this'll  be  livelier  than 
Amdheran  !     Where's  your  horse  ? 

Caff.    G  .  —  (^Furiously,    seeing   that    the 

woine7i  arc  out  of  earshot.^     Where  the 

is  my  Wife  f 


WITH  ANY  AMAZEMENT.  ^7 

Capt.  M.  —  Half-way  to  Mahasu  by  this 
time.  You'll  have  to  ride  like  Young  Loch- 
invar. 

Horse  comes  round  on  his  hind  legs ;  re- 
fuses to  let  G.  handle  him, 

Capt.  G.  —  Oh,  you  will,  will  you  ?  Get 
round,  you  brute  —  you  hog  —  you  beast! 
Get  round  ! 

Wrenches  horses  head  over,  7iearly  break- 
ing lower  jaw ;  swings  himself  into  saddle, 
and  sends  home  both  spurs  in  the  midst  of  a 
spattering  gale  of  Best  Patna, 

Capt.  M.  —  For  your  life  and  your  love  — 
ride,  Gaddy  !  —  And  God  bless  you  ! 

Throws  half  a  pound  of  rice  at  G.,  zuho 
disappears,  bozved  forward  on  the  saddle,  in  a 
cloud  of  sunlit  dust. 

Capt.  M.  —  I've  lost  old  Gaddy.  {Lights 
cigarette  and  strolls  off,  singing  absently)  :  — 

"  You  may  carve  it  on  his  tombstone,  you  may  cut  it  on 
his  card, 
That  a  young  man  married  is  a  young  man  marred  !  " 

Miss    Deercourt.  —  {Fro?n    her    horse.) 


SS  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Really,  Captain  Mafflin  !    You  are  more  plain- 
spoken  than  polite  ! 

Capt.  M. —  {Aside.)  They  say  marriage 
Is  like  cholera.  'Wonder  who'll  be  the  next 
victim. 

White  satin  slippe7^  slides  from  his  sleeve 
and  falls  at  his  feet.     Left  W07idering. 

CURTAIN. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  EDEN. 


"  And  ye  shall  be  as  —  Gods !  " 

Scene.  —  Thymy  grass-plot  at  back  of  the 
Mahasu  dak-bungaloiv ,  overlooking  little 
ivooded  valley.  On  the  left,  glimpse  of  the 
Dead  Forest  of  Fagoo ;  on  the  right,  Simla 
Hills.  In  background,  line  of  the  Snoivs. 
Capt.  Gadsby,  now  one  week  a  husband,  is 
smoking  the  pipe  of  peace  on  a  rug  in  the 
sunshine.  Banjo  and  tobacco-pouch  on 
rug.  Overhead,  the  Fagoo  eagles.  Mrs. 
G.  comes  out  of  bungalow. 

Mrs.  G.  —  My  husband  ! 

Capt.   G.  —  (^Lazily,    zuith  intense  enjoy- 
ment.)    Eh,  wha-at?     Say  that  again. 

Mrs.  G.  —  I've  written  to  Mamma  and  told 
her  that  we  shall  be  back  on  the  1 7th. 

89 


QO  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS, 

Capt.  G.  —  Did  you  give  her  my  love  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  No,  I  kept  all  that  for  myself. 
{Sitting  down  by  his  side.)  I  thought  you 
wouldn't  mind. 

Capt.  G.  —  (  With  mock  sternness?)  I  ob- 
ject awfly.  How  did  you  know  that  it  was 
yours  to  keep  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  I  guessed,  Phil. 

Capt.  G.  —  {Rapturously?)  Lit- tie  Feath- 
erweight ! 

Mrs.  G.  —  I  wo7zt  be  called  those  sporting 
pet  names,  bad  boy. 

Capt.  G.  —  You'll  be  called  anything  I 
choose.  Has  It  ever  occurred  to  you,  Madam, 
that  you  are  my  Wife  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  It  has.  I  haven't  ceased  won- 
dering at  it  yet. 

Capt.  G.  —  Nor  I.  It  seems  so  strange  ; 
and  yet,  somehow,  It  doesn't.  (  Confidently.) 
You  see,  it  could  have  been  no  one  else. 

Mrs.  G.—  {Softly.)  No.  No  one  else 
—  for  me  or  for  you.  It  must  have  been  all 
arranged  from  the  beginning.  Phil,  tell  me 
again  what  made  you  care  for  me. 


J"" 
THE   GARDEN  OF  EDEN.  91 

Capt.  G.  —  How  could  1  help  It  ?  You 
werejj'6'^,  you  know. 

Mrs.  G.  —  Did  you  ever  want  to  help  It  ? 
Speak  the  truth ! 

Capt.  G.  —  {A  twinkle  in  his  eye.)  I  did, 
darling,  just  at  the  first.  But  only  at  the  very 
first.  (C/iuck/es.)  I  called  you  —  stoop  low 
and  I'll  whisper  —  ''a  little  beast."  Ho  !  Ho  ! 
Ho! 

Mrs.  G.  —  (  Taking  him  by  the  mustache 
and  making  him  sit  up.)  ''A — little  — 
beast !  "  Stop  laughing  over  your  crime  ! 
And  yet  you  had  the  —  the  —  awful  cheek  to 
propose  to  me  ! 

Capt.  G.  —  I'd  changed  my  mind  then. 
And  you  weren't  a  little  beast  any  more. 

Mrs.  G. — Thank  you,  Sir!  And  when 
was  I  ever? 

Capt.  G.  — Never  I  But  that  first  day,  when 
you  gave  me  tea  in  that  peach-colored  muslin 
gown  thing,  you  looked — you  did  Indeed, 
dear  —  such  an  absurd  little  mite.  And  I 
didn't  know  what  to  say  to  you. 

Mrs.    G.  —  ( Twisting    mustache?)        So 


92  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

you  said  ''  little  beast."  Upon  my  word,  Sir  ! 
/called 7^^  a  "  Crrrreature,"  but  I  wish  now 
I  had  called  you  something  worse. 

Capt.  G. —  {Very  meekly^  I  apologize, 
but  you're  hurting  me  awfly.  {Inter hide?) 
You're  welcome  to  torture  me  again  on  those 
terms. 

Mrs.  G.  —  Oh,  ivhy  did  you  let  me  do 
It? 

Capt.  G.  —  {Looking  across  valley^  No 
reason  In  particular,  but  —  if  It  amused  you 
or  did  you  any  good  —  you  might  —  wipe 
those  dear  little  boots  of  yours  on  me. 

Mrs.  G. —  {Stretching  out  her  hands,) 
Don't !  Oh,  don't !  Philip,  my  King,  please 
don't  talk  like  that.  It's  how  /feel.  You're 
so  much  too  good  for  me.  So  much  too 
good ! 

Capt.  G.  —  Me  !  I'm  not  fit  to  put  my  arm 
round  you.      {Puts  it  roimd.) 

Mrs.  G.  —  Yes,  you  are.  But  I  —  what 
have  I  ever  done  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  Given  me  a  wee  bit  of  your 
heart,  haven't  you,  my  Queen  ? 


IHE   GARDEN  OF  EDEN,  93 

Mrs.  G. —  That's  nothing.  Any  one 
would  do  that.     They  cou  —  couldn't  help  It. 

Caff.  G.  —  Pussy,  you'll  make  me  horribly 
conceited.  Just  when  I  was  beginning  to 
feel  so  humble,  too. 

Mrs.  G. —  Humble!  I  don't  believe  It's 
in  your  character. 

Capt.  G.  — What  do  you  know  of  my  char- 
acter, Impertinence? 

Mrs.  G.  — Ah,  but  I  shall,  shan't  I,  Phil? 
I  shall  have  time  in  all  the  years  and  years  to 
come,  to  know  everything  about  you ;  and 
there  will  be  no  secrets  between  us. 

Capt.  G.  —  Little  witch  !  I  believe  you 
know  me  thoroughly  already. 

Mrs.  G.  —  I  think  I  can  guess.  You're 
selfish  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  Yes. 

Mrs.  G.  —  Foolish  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  Very. 

Mrs.  G.  — And  a  dear? 

Capt.  G.  —  That  is  as  my  lady  pleases. 

Mrs.  G. — Then  your  lady  is  pleased. 
{A  pause.)  D'you  know  that  weVe  two  sol- 
emn, serious,  grown-up  people  — 


94  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Capt.  G.  —  (  Tilting  her  straw  hat  over 
her  eyes.)  You  grown  up  !  Pooh  !  You're 
a  baby. 

Mrs.  G.  —  And  we're  talking  nonsense. 

Capt.  G.  —  Then  let's  go  on  talking  non- 
sense. I  rather  like  it.  Pussy,  I'll  tell  you 
a  secret.     Promise  not  to  repeat  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  Ye  —  es.     Only  to  you. 

Capt.    G.  —  I  love  you. 

Mrs.  G.  —  Re-ally  !     For  how  long  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  For  ever  and  ever. 

Mrs.  G.  —  That's  a  long  time. 

Capt.  G.  —  'Think  so  ?  It's  the  shortest  / 
can  do  with. 

Mrs.  G.  —  You're  getting  quite  clever. 

Capt.  G.  —  I'm  talking  to  you. 

Mrs.  G.  —  Prettily  turned.  Hold  up  your 
stupid  old  head  and  I'll  pay  you  for  it ! 

Capt.  G.  —  {^Affecting  supreme  contempt?) 
Take  it  yourself  if  you  want  it. 

Mrs.  G.  —  I've  a  great  mind  to  .  .  .  and 
I  will !  ( Takes  it,  arid  is  repaid  with 
interest^ 

Capt.  G.  —  Little  Featherweight,  it's  my 
opinion  that  we  are  a  couple  of  idiots. 


THE   GARDEN  OF  EDEN.  95 

Mrs.  G.  —  We're  the  only  two  sensible 
people  in  the  world  !  Ask  the  eagle.  He's 
coming  by. 

Capt.  G.  —  Ah !  I  dare  say  he's  seen  a 
good  many  "  sensible  people "  at  Mahasu. 
They  say  that  those  birds  live  for  ever  so 
long. 

Mrs.  G.  —  How  long  ? 

Capt.    G.  —  A  hundred  and  twenty  years. 

Mrs.  G.  —  A  hundred  and  twenty  years! 
O-oh  !  And  in  a  hundred  and  twenty  years 
where  will  these  two  sensible  people  be  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  What  does  it  matter  so  long  as 
we  are  together  now  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  (^Looking  round  the  horizon^ 
Yes.  Only  you  and  I  —  I  and  you  —  in  the 
whole  wide,  wide  world  until  the  end.  {^Sees 
the  line  of  the  Snows?)  How  big  and  quiet 
the  hills  look!  D'you  think  they  care  for 
us? 

Capt.  G.  —  'Can't  say  I've  consulted  'em 
particularly.  /  care,  and  that's  enough  for 
me. 

Mrs.    G.  —  {^Drawing    nearer    to    him.) 


96  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Yes,  now  .  .  .  but  afterwards.  What's  that 
little  black  blur  on  the  Snows  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  A  snowstorm,  forty  miles 
away.  You'll  see  it  move,  as  the  wind  car- 
ries it  across  the  face  of  that  spur,  and  then 
it  will  be  all  gone. 

Mrs.  G.  —  And  then  it  will  be  all  gone. 
(^Shivers  ?j 

Capt.  G.  —  {AjzxioMsiy.)  'Not  chilled, 
pet,  are  you  ?     'Better  let  me  get  your  cloak. 

Mrs.  G.  —  No.  Don't  leave  me,  Phil. 
Stay  fiere.  I  believe  I  am  afraid.  Oh,  why 
are  the  hills  so  horrid  /  Phil,  promise  me, 
promise  me  that  you'll  always,  always  love 
me. 

Capt.  G. — What's  the  trouble,  darling? 
I  can't  promise  any  more  than  I  have  ;  but 
I'll  promise  that  again  and  again  if  you  like. 

Mrs.  G.  —  (^Her  head  on  his  shoulder.) 
Say  it,  then  —  say  it  !  N-no  —  don't !  The 
—  the  —  eagles  would  laugh.  {^Recozming'.) 
My  husband,  you've  married  a  little  goose. 

Capt.  G.  —  (  Very  tenderly.)  Have  I  ? 
I  am  content  w^hatever  she  is,  so  long  as  she 
is  mine. 


THE   GARDEN  OF  EDEN,  9/ 

Mrs.  G.  —  (^Quickly?)  Because  she  is 
yours  or  because  she  Is  me  mineself  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  Because  she  is  both.  (P/A 
eously.)  I'm  not  clever,  dear,  and  I  don't 
think  I  can  make  myself  understood  properly. 

Mrs.  G.  —  /  understand.  Pip,  will  you 
tell  me  something  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  Anything  you  like.  (AstWe.) 
I  wonder  what's  coming  now. 

Mrs.  G.  —  (^Haltingly,  her  eyes  lowered^ 
You  told  me  once  in  the  old  days  —  centuries 
and  centuries  ago  —  that  you  had  been  en- 
gaged before.     I  didn't  say  anything —  theti, 

Capt.  G.  —  {lujiocently.)     Why  not  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  (^Raising  her  eyes  to  his.) 
Because  —  because  I  was  afraid  of  losing 
you,  my  heart.  But  now  —  tell  about  it  — 
please. 

Capt.  G.  —  There's  nothing  to  tell.  I  was 
awf'ly  old  then  —  nearly  two  and  twenty  — 
and  she  was  quite  that. 

Mrs.  G.  —  That  means  she  was  older  than 
you.  I  shouldn't  like  her  to  have  been 
younger.     Well  ? 


98  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Capt.  G.  —  Well,  I  fancied  myself  In  love 
and  raved  about  a  bit,  and  —  oh,  yes,  by 
Jove  !     I  made  up  poetry.     Ha  !  Ha ! 

Mrs.  G.  —  You  never  wrote  any  for  me  I 
What  happened  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  I  came  out  here,  and  the 
whole  thing  went  phut.  She  wrote  to  say 
that  there  had  been  a  mistake,  and  then  she 
married. 

Mrs.  G.  —  Did  she  care  for  you  much  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  No.  At  least  she  didn't  show 
it  as  far  as  I  remember. 

Mrs.  G.  — As  far  as  you  remember  !  Do 
you  remember  her  name  ?  {^Hears  it  and 
bows  her  head?)     Thank  you,  my  husband. 

Capt.  G.  —  Who  but  you  had  the  right  ? 
Now,  Little  Featherweight,  have  you  ever 
been  mixed  up  in  any  dark  and  dismal 
tragedy  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  If  you  call  me  Mrs.  Gadsby, 
p'raps  I'll  tell. 

Capt.  G. —  {Throwing  Parade  rasp  into 
his  voice?)     Mrs.  Gadsby,  confess  ! 

Mrs.  G.  —  Good  Heavens,  Phil !     I  never 


THE   GARDEN  OF  EDEN.  99 

knew  that  you  could  speak  in  that  terrible 
voice. 

Capt.  G.  —  You  don't  know  half  my 
accomplishments  yet.  Wait  till  we  are 
settled  in  the  Plains,  and  I'll  show  you  how 
I  bark  at  my  troop.  You  were  going  to  say, 
darling  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  I  —  I  don't  like  to,  after  that 
voice.  (^Tremulously.)  Phil,  never  you 
dare  to  speak  to  me  in  that  tone,  whatever 
I  may  do ! 

Capt.  G.  —  My  poor  little  love  !  Why, 
you're  shaking  all  over.  I  am  so  sorry.  Of 
course  I  never  meant  to  upset  you.  Don't 
tell  me  anything.     I'm  a  brute. 

Mrs.  G.  —  No,  you  aren't,  and  I  will  tell. 
.  .  .  There  was  a  man. 

Caff.  G.  —  {Lig'htly.)  Was  there  ? 
Lucky  man  ! 

Mrs.  G.  —  {In  a  whisper.)  And  I 
thought  I  cared  for  him. 

Capt.  G.  —  Still  luckier  man  !     Well  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  And  I  thought  I  cared  for  him 
—  and  I  didn't  —  and  then  you   came  —  and 


100  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBVS, 

I  cared  for  you  very,  very  much  indeed. 
That's  all.  (^Face  hidden.)  You  aren't 
angry,  are  you  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  Angry  ?  Not  In  the  least. 
{Aside.')  Good  Lord,  what  have  I  done  to 
deserve  this  angel  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  (Aside.)  And  he  never  asked 
for  the  name  !  How  funny  men  are  !  But 
perhaps  it's  as  well. 

Capt.  G.  —  That  man  will  go  to  heaven 
because  you  once  thought  you  cared  for 
him.  'Wonder  if  you'll  ever  drag  me  up 
there  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  {Firmly.)  'Sha'n't  go  if  you 
don't. 

Capt.  G.  —  Thanks.  I  say,  Pussy,  I  don't 
know  much  about  your  religious  beliefs. 
You  were  brought  up  to  believe  in  a  heaven 
and  all  that,  weren't  you  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  Yes.     But  it  was  a  pincushion 
heaven,  with  hymn-books  in  all  the  pews. 

Capt.  G.  —  (  Wagging  his  head  with  in- 
tense conviction.)  Never  mind.  There  is  a 
pukka  heaven. 


THE   GARDEN  OF  EDEN,  lOI 

Mrs.  G.  —  Where  do  you  bring  that  mes- 
sage from,  my  prophet  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  Here  !  Because  we  care  for 
each  other.     So  it's  all  right. 

Mrs.  G.  —  i^As  a  troop  of  langurs  crash 
through  the  branches^  So  it's  all  right.  But 
Darwin  says  that  we  came  from  those  ! 

Capt.  G.  —  (^Placidly?)  Ah !  Darwin 
was  never  in  love  with  an  angel.  That 
settles  it.  Sstt,  you  brutes !  Monkeys,  in- 
deed !     You  shouldn't  read  those  books. 

Mrs.  G.  —  (^Folding  her  hands})  If  it 
pleases  my  Lord  the  King  to  issue  proclama- 
tion. 

Capt.  G.  —  Don't,  dear  one.  There  are 
no  orders  between  us.  Only  I'd  rather  you 
didn't.  They  lead  to  nothing,  and  bother 
people's  heads. 

Mrs.  G.  —  Like  your  first  engagement. 

Capt.  G.  —  ( With  an  immense  calm?) 
That  was  a  necessary  evil  and  led  to  you. 
Are  you  nothing  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  Not  so  very  much,  am  I  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  All  this  world  and  the  next  to 
me. 


102  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Mrs.  G.  —  (  Very  softly^  My  boy  of  boys  ! 
Shall  I  tell  you  something  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  Yes,  if  it's  not  dreadful  — 
about  other  men. 

Mrs.  G.  —  It's  about  my  own  bad  little 
self. 

Capt.  G.  — Then  it  must  be  good.  Go  on, 
dear. 

Mrs.  G. —  (^Slowly.)  I  don't  know  why 
I'm  telling  you,  Pip  ;  but  if  ever  you  marry 
again  —  {Interlude.)  Take  your  hand  from 
my  mouth  or  I'll  bite  I  —  In  the  future, 
then  remember  ...  I  don't  know  quite  how 
to  put  it ! 

Capt.  G.  —  {^Snorting  indignantly?)  Don't 
try.     "  Marry  again,"  indeed  ! 

Mrs.  G.  —  I  must.  Listen,  my  husband. 
Never,  never,  7iever  tell  your  wife  anything 
that  you  do  not  wish  her  to  remember  and 
think  over  all  her  life.  Because  a  woman  — 
yes,  I  am  a  woman,  Sir  —  cant  forget. 

Capt.  G.  —  By  Jove,  how  do  you  know 
that  ? 

Mrs.    G.  —  (^Confusedly?)      I   don't.     I'm 


THE  GARDEN  OF  EDEN.  103 

only  guessing.  I  am  —  I  was  —  a  silly  little 
girl  ;  but  I  feel  that  I  know  so  much,  oh,  so 
very  much  more  than  you,  dearest.  To  begin 
with,  I'm  your  wife. 

Capt.  G.  —  So  I  have  been  led  to  believe. 

Mrs.  G.  —  And  I  shall  want  to  know  every 
one  of  your  secrets  —  to  share  everything 
you  know  with  you.  {^Stares  round  desper- 
ately for  lucidity  a7id  coherence,^ 

Capt.  G.  —  So  you  shall,  dear,  so  you  shall 

—  but  don't  look  like  that. 

Mrs.  G.  —  For  your  own  sake  don't  stop 
me,  Phil.  I  shall  never  talk  to  you  in  this 
way  again.  You  must  not  tell  me  !  At  least, 
not  now.  Later  on,  when  I'm  an  old  matron 
it  won't  matter,  but  if  you  love  me,  be  very 
good  to  me  now  ;  for  this  part  of  my  life  I 
shall  never  forget !  Have  I  made  you  under- 
stand ? 

Capt.  G.  —  I  think  so,  child.  Have  I  said 
anything  yet  that  you  disapprove  of? 

Mrs.  G.  —  Will  you  be  very  angry  ?     That 

—  that  voice,  and  what  you  said  about  the 
engagement  — 


104  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS, 

Capt.  G.  —  But  you  asked  to  be  told  that; 
darling. 

Mrs.  G. — And  that's  why  you  shouldn't 
have  told  me  !  You  must  be  the  judge,  and, 
oh,  Pip,  dearly  as  I  love  you,  I  sha'n't  be 
able  to  help  you  !  I  shall  hinder  you,  and 
you  must  judge  In  spite  of  me  ! 

Capt.  G.  —  (^Meditatively.')  We  have  a 
great  many  things  to  find  out  together,  God 
help  us  both  —  say  so.  Pussy  — but  v^e  shall 
understand  each  other  better  every  day  ;  and 
I  think  I'm  beginning  to  see  now.  How  In 
the  world  did  you  come  to  know  just  the 
Importance  of  giving  me  just  that  lead  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  I've  told  you  that  I  dont  know. 
Only  somehow  it  seemed  that,  in  all  this  new 
life,  I  was  being  guided  for  your  sake  as  well 
as  my  own. 

Capt.  G. —  (Aside.)  Then  Mafflin  was 
right !  They  know,  and  we  —  we're  blind  — 
all  of  us.  (Lightly^  'Getting  a  little  be- 
yond our  depth,  dear,  aren't  we?  I'll  re- 
member, and,  if  I  fail,  let  me  be  punished  as 
I  deserve. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  EDEN.  1 05 

Mrs.  G. —  There  shall  be  no  punishment. 
We'll  start  into  life  together  from  here  —  you 
and  I  —  and  no  one  else. 

Capt.  G.  —  And  no  one  else.  {^A  pause?) 
Your  eyelashes  are  all  wet,  Sweet?  Was 
there  ever  such  a  quaint  little  Absurdity  ? 

Mrs.  G. — Was  there  ever  such  nonsense 
talked   before  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  (^Knocking  the  ashes  out  of  his 
pipe.^  'TIsn't  what  we  say,  It's  what  we  don't 
say.  that  helps.  And  It's  all  the  profoundest 
philosophy.  But  no  one  would  understand 
—  even  If  It  were  put  Into  a  book. 

Mrs.  G.  —  The  Idea !  No  —  only  we  our- 
selves, or  people  like  ourselves  —  If  there 
are  any  people  like  us. 

Capt.  G. —  (^Magisterially^  All  people, 
not  like  ourselves,  are  blind  Idiots. 

Mrs.  G. —  (^Wiping  her  eyes.)  Do  you 
think,  then,  that  there  are  any  people  as 
happy  as  we  are  ? 

Cafp.  G.  —  'Must  be  —  unless  weVe  ap- 
propriated all  the  happiness  in  the  world. 

Mrs.  G.  —  (Loohii/g  towards  Simla.) 
Poor  dears  !     Just  fancy  if  we  have ! 


I06  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Capt.  G.  —  Then  we'll  hang  on  to  the 
whole  show,  for  it's  a  great  deal  too  jolly  to 
lose  —  eh,  wife  o'  mine  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  Oh,  Pip,  Pip!  How  much  of 
you  Is  a  solemn,  married  man  and  how  much 
a  horrid,  slangy  school-boy  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  When  you  tell  me  how  much 
of  you  was  eighteen  last  birthday  and  how 
much  is  as  old  as  the  Sphinx  and  twice  as 
mysterious,  perhaps  I'll  attend  to  you.  Lend 
me  that  banjo.  The  spirit  moveth  me  to 
yowl  at  the  sunset. 

Mrs.  G.  —  Mind  !  It's  not  tuned.  Ah  ! 
How  that  jars  ! 

Capt.  G.  —  (^Turning'  pegs,)  It's  amaz- 
ingly difficult  to  keep  a  banjo  to  proper 
pitch. 

Mrs.  G.  —  It's  the  same  with  all  musical 
instruments.     What  shall  It  be  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  "Vanity,"  and  let  the  hills 
hear.  (^Sing's  through  the  fii^st  ajid  half  of 
the  second  verse.  Turning  to  Mrs.  G.)  Now, 
chorus  !     Sing,  Pussy  ! 

Both  together.  —  (  Con  brio,  to  tJie  horror 


THE   GARDEN  OF  EDEN.  107 

of   the   monkeys   who   are    settling  for    the 
night. ^ 

"  Vanity,  all  is  Vanity,"  said  Wisdom,  scorn- 
ing me  — 
I  clasped  my  true   Love's  tender  hand  and 
answered  frank  and  free  —  ee  :  — 
"  If  this  be  Vanity  who'd  be  wise  ? 
If  this  be  Vanity  who'd  be  wise  ? 
If  this  be  Vanity  who'd  be  wi  —  ise  ? 
{Crescendo?)  —  Vanity  let  it  be  !  " 

Mrs.  G.  —  {^Defiantly  to  the  gray  of  the 
evening  sky. )      ''  Vanity  let  it  be  !  " 

Echo.  —  {From  the  Fagoo  spur.)  Let  it 
be! 

CURTAIN. 


FATIMA. 


"  And  you  may  go  into  every  room  of  the  house  and  see 
everything  that  is  there,  but  into  the  Blue  Room  you  must  not 
go.'"  —  The  Story  of  Blue  Beard. 

Scene.  —  The  Gadsbys  bungalow  in  the 
Plains.  Time,  ii  a.  m.,  on  a  Sunday 
morning.  Captain  Gadsby,  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, is  bending  over  a  complete  set  of 
Hussar  s  equipment,  from  saddle  to  picket- 
ing-rope,  which  is  neatly  spread  over  the 
floor  of  his  study.  He  is  smoking  an  un- 
clean briar,  and  his  forehead  is  puckered 
with  thought. 

Caw.  G.  —  (  To  himself ,  fingering  a  head- 
stall^ Jack's  an  ass  !  There's  enough  brass 
on  this  to  load  a  mule  .  .  .  and,  if  the  Amer- 
icans know  anything  about  anything,  it  can 
be  cut  down  to  a  bit  only.     'Don't  want  the 

io8 


'  FATIMA,  109 

watering-bridle,  either.  Humbug !  .  .  .  Half 
a  dozen  sets  of  chains  and  pulleys  for  the  same 
old  horse !  (^Scratching-  his  head.)  Now, 
let's  consider  it  all  over  from  the  beginning. 
By  Jove,  I've  forgotten  the  scale  of  weights ! 
Ne'er  mind.  'Keep  the  bit  only,  and  elim- 
inate every  boss  from  the  crupper  to  the 
breastplate.  No  breastplate  at  all.  Simple 
leather  strap  across  the  breast  —  like  the 
Russians.     Hi !   Jack  never  thought  oi  that  ! 

Mrs.  G.  —  (^Entcri^ig  hastily,  her  hand 
boimd  in  a  cloth})  Oh,  Pip !  I've  scalded 
my  hand  over  that  horrid,  horrid  Tiparee  jam. 

Capt.  G.  —  {Abse7itly>)     Eh  !     Wha-at  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  (  With  round- eyed  reproach^ 
I've  scalded  it  <^zf-fully  !  Aren't  you  sorry? 
And  I  did  so  want  that  jam  to  jam  properly. 

Capt.  G.  —  Poor  little  woman  !  Let  me 
kiss  the  place  and  make  it  well.  {Lhirolling 
bandage?)  You  small  sinner  !  Where's  that 
scald  ?     I  can't  see  it. 

Mrs.  G.  —  On  the  top  of  the  little  fmger. 
There  !  —  It's  a  most  'normous  big  burn  ! 

CAFr.  G.  —  (^Kissing- little  Jinger.)     Baby ! 


no  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS, 

Let  Hyder  look  after  the  jam.  You  know  I 
don't  care  for  sweets. 

Mrs.  G.  —  In-deed  ?  ...   Pip  ! 

Capt.  G.  —  Not  of  that  kind,  anyhow. 
And  now  run  along,  Minnie,  and  leave  me  to 
my  own  base  devices.      I'm  busy. 

Mrs.  G.  —  ( Calmly  settling  herself  in 
long  chair.)  So  I  see.  What  a  mess  you're 
making !  Why  have  you  brought  all  that 
smelly  leather  stuff  Into  the  house  ? 

Capt.  G. — To  play  with.  Do  you  mind, 
dear  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  Let  nie  play,  too.     I'd  like  It. 

Caff.  G.  —  I'm  afraid  you  wouldn't.  Pussy. 
.  .  .  Don't  you  think  that  jam  will  burn,  or 
whatever  it  is  that  jam  does  when  It's  not 
looked  after  by  a  clever  little  housekeeper  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  I  thought  you  said  Hyder  could 
attend  to  It.  I  left  him  In  the  veranda,  stir- 
ring —  when  I  hurt  myself  so. 

Caff.  G.  —  (^His  eye  retnrning  to  the 
cqui'pment?)  Po-oor  little  woman !  .  .  . 
Three  pound  four  and  seven  is  three  eleven, 
and  that  can  be  cut  down  to  two  eicrht,  with 


FAT/MA.  Ill 

just  a  lee-t\Q  care,  without  weakening  any- 
thing. Farriery  is  all  rot  in  incompetent 
hands.  What's  the  use  of  a  shoe-case  when 
a  man's  scouting  ?  He  can't  stick  it  on  with 
a  lick  —  like  a  stamp  —  the  shoe  !     Skittles  ! 

Mrs.  G.  —  What's  skittles  ?  Pah  !  What 
is  this  leather  cleaned  with  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  Cream  and  champagne  and 
.  .  .  Look  here,  dear,  do  you  really  want  to 
talk  to  me  about  anything  important  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  No.  I've  done  my  accounts, 
and  I  thought  I'd  like  to  see  what  you're 
doinof. 

Capt.  G.  —  Well,  love,  now  you've  seen 
and  .  .  .  Would  you  mind  ?  .  .  .  That  is 
to  say  .   .  .  Minnie,  I  really  am  busy. 

Mrs.  G.  —  You  want  me  to  go  ? 

CxvT.  G.  — Yes,  dear,  for  a  little  while. 
This  tobacco  will  hang  in  your  dress,  and 
saddlery  doesn't  interest  you. 

Mrs.  G.  —  Everything  you  do  interests  me, 
Pip. 

Capt.  G.  —  Yes,  I  know,  I  know,  dear. 
I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  some  day  when  I've 


112  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS, 

put  a  head  on  this  thing.  In  the  mean- 
time .  .  . 

Mrs.  G.  —  I'm  to  be  turned  out  of  the 
room  like  a  troublesome  child  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  No-o.  I  don't  mean  that  ex- 
actly. But,  you  see,  I  shall  be  tramping  up 
and  down,  shifting  these  things  to  and  fro, 
and  I  shall  be  in  your  way.  Don't  you  think 
so  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  Can't  I  lift  them  about  ?  Let 
me  try.  (^Reaches  forward  to  troopers 
saddle^ 

Capt.  G. — Good  gracious,  child,  don't 
touch  it.  You'll  hurt  yourself.  {Picking  up 
saddle?)  Little  girls  aren't  expected  to 
handle  numdahs.  Now,  where  would  you 
like  it  put  ?     {Holds  saddle  above  his  head.) 

Mrs.  G.  —  {A  break  in  her  voice?)  No- 
where. Pip,  how  good  you  are  —  and  how 
strong!  Oh,  what's  that  ugly  red  streak  in- 
side your  arm  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  {Lozvering  saddle  quickly?) 
Nothing.  It's  a  mark  of  sorts.  {Aside?) 
And  Jack's  coming  to  tiffin  with  his  notions 
all  cut  and  dried  ! 


FATIMA.  113 

Mrs.  G.  —  I  know  It's  a  mark,  but  I've 
never  seen  it  before.  It  runs  all  up  the  arm. 
What  is  it  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  A  cut  —  If  you  want  to 
know. 

Mrs.  G.  —  Want  to  know !  Of  course  I 
do  !  I  can't  have  my  husband  cut  to  pieces 
in  this  way.  How  did  it  come  ?  Was  it  an 
accident  ?     Tell  me,  Pip. 

Capt.  G.  —  (^Grimly?)  No.  'Twasn't  an 
accident.  I  got  It  —  from  a  man  —  in 
Afghanistan. 

Mrs.  G.  —  In  action  ?  Oh,  Pip,  and  you 
never  told  me ! 

Capt.  G.  —  I'd  forgotten  all  about  It. 

Mrs.  G.  —  Hold  up  your  arm  !  What  a 
horrid,  ugly  scar !  Are  you  sure  It  doesn't 
hurt  now  ?     How  did  the  man  give  it  you  ? 

Capi\  G. — i^Despe^^ately  looking  at  his 
watch?)  With  a  knife.  I  came  down  — 
Old  Van  Loo  did,  that's  to  say  —  and  fell  on 
my  leg,  so  I  couldn't  run.  And  then  this 
man  came  up  and  began  chopping  at  me  as  I 
sprawled. 


114  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Mrs.  G.  — Oh,  don't,  don't!  That's 
enough  !  .  .  .  Well,  what  happened  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  I  couldn't  get  to  my  holster, 
and  Mafflin  came  round  the  corner  and 
stopped  the  performance. 

Mrs.  G.  —  How  ?  He's  such  a  lazy  man, 
I  don't  believe  he  did. 

Capt.  G.  —  Don't  you  ?  I  don't  think  the 
man  had  much  doubt  about  it.  Jack  cut  his 
head  off. 

Mrs.  G.  —  Cut  —  his—  head— off !  *'  With 
one  below  "  as  they  say  in  the  books  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  I'm  not  sure.  I  was  too  inter- 
ested in  myself  to  know  much  about  it. 
Anyhow,  the  head  was  off,  and  Jack  was 
punching  old  Van  Loo  in  the  ribs  to  make 
him  get  up.  Now  you  know  all  about  it, 
dear,  and  now  ... 

Mrs.  G.  —  You  want  me  to  go,  of  course. 
You  never  told  me  about  this,  though  I've 
been  married  to  you  for  ever  so  long ;  and 
you  never  would  have  told  me  if  I  hadn't 
found  out ;  and  you  never  do  tell  me  any- 
thing about  yourself,  or  what  you  do,  or 
what  you  take  an  interest  in. 


FA  TIM  A,  115 

Capt,  G.  —  Darling,  I'm  always  with  you, 
aren't  I  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  Always  In  my  pocket,  you  were 
going  to  say.  I  know  you  are  ;  but  you  are 
always  thinking  away  from  me. 

Capt.  G.  —  ( Trying  to  hide  a  smile?) 
Am  I?  I  wasn't  aware  of  it.  I'm  awf'ly 
sorry. 

Mrs.  G.  —  {Piteously.)  Oh,  don't  make 
fun  of  me !  Pip,  you  know  what  I  mean. 
When  you  are  reading  one  of  those  things 
about  Cavalry,  by  that  idiotic  Prince  —  why 
doesn't  he  be  a  Prince  instead  of  a  stable- 
boy  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  Prince  Kraft  a  stable-boy  ! 
Oh,  my  Aunt !  Never  mind,  dear !  You 
were  going  to  say  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  It  doesn't  matter.  You  don't 
care  for  what  I  say.  Only  —  only  you  get 
up  and  walk  about  the  room,  staring  in  front 
of  you,  and  then  Mafflin  comes  in  to  dinner, 
and  after  I'm  in  the  drawing-room  I  can  hear 
you  and  him  talking,  and  talking,  and  talk- 
ing, about  things  I  can't  understand,  and  — 


1 1 6  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

oh,  I  get  SO  tired  and  feel  so  lonely  !  —  I  don't 
want  to  complain  and  be  a  trouble,  Pip ;  but 
I  do  —  Indeed  I  do  ! 

Capt.  G.  —  My  poor  darling  !  I  never 
thought  of  that.  Why  don't  you  ask  some 
nice  people  In  to  dinner  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  Nice  people  !  Where  am  I  to 
find  them  ?  Horrid  frumps  !  And  if  I  did, 
I  shouldn't  be  amused.  You  know  I  only 
want  j(??^. 

Caff.  G.  —  And  you  have  me  surely, 
Sweetheart  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  I  have  not !  Pip,  why  don't 
you  take  me  Into  your  life  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  More  than  I  do  ?  That  would 
be  difficult,  dear. 

Mrs.  G.  —  Yes,  I  suppose  It  would  —  to 
you.  I'm  no  help  to  you  —  no  companion 
to  you  ;  and  you  like  to  have  It  so. 

Capt.  G.  —  Aren't  you  a  little  unreason- 
able, Pussy? 

Mrs.  G.  —  (^Stampmg  her  foot?)  I'm  the 
most  reasonable  woman  In  the  world  —  when 
I'm  treated  properly. 


FATIMA.  117 

Capt.  G.  —  And  since  when  have  I  been 
treating  you  improperly  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  Always  —  and  since  the  begin- 
ning.    You  hiow  you  have. 

Capt.  G.  —  I  don't.  But  I'm  willing  to  be 
convinced. 

Mrs.  G.  —  (^Pointing  to  saddlery^ 
There ! 

Capt.  G.  —  How  do  you  mean  ? 

Mrs.  G.  — What  does  all  that  mean  ?  Why 
am  I  not  to  be  told  ?     Is  It  so  precious  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  I  forget  Its  exact  Government 
value  just  at  present.  It  means  that  it  is  a 
great  deal  too  heavy. 

Mrs.  G.  — Then  why  do  you  touch  It  ? 

Capt.  G. — To  make  It  lighter.  See  here, 
little  love,  I've  one  notion  and  Jack  has 
another,  but  we  are  both  agreed  that  all  this 
equipment  Is  about  thirty  pounds  too  heavy. 
The  thing  Is  how  to  cut  It  down  without 
weakening  any  part  of  it,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  allowing  the  trooper  to  carry  every- 
thing he  wants  for  his  own  comfort  —  socks 
and  shirts  and  things  of  that  kind. 


Il8  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Mrs.  G.  —  Why  doesn't  he  pack  them  in  a 
little  trunk  ? 

Capt.  G. —  {Kissing  her.)  Oh,  you  dar- 
ling !  Pack  them  in  a  little  trunk,  indeed  ! 
Hussars  don't  carry  trunks,  and  it's  a  most 
important  thing  to  make  the  horse  do  all  the 
carrying. 

Mrs.  G.  —  But  why  need  you  bother  about 
it  ?     You're  not  a  trooper. 

Capt.  G.  —  No  ;  but  I  command  a  few 
score  of  him ;  and  equipment  is  nearly 
everything  in  these  days. 

Mrs.  G.  —  More  than  me  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  Stupid  !  Of  course  not ;  but 
it's  a  matter  that  I'm  tremendously  interested 
in,  because  if  I  or  Jack,  or  I  and  Jack,  hack 
out  some  sort  of  lighter  saddlery  and  all 
that,  it's  possible  that  we  may  get  it  adopted. 

Mrs.  G.  —  How  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  Sanctioned  at  Home,  where 
they  will  make  a  sealed  pattern  —  a  pattern 
that  all  the  saddlers  must  copy  —  and  so  it 
will  be  used  by  all  the  regiments. 

Mrs.  G.  —  And  that  interests  you  ? 


FA77MA.  119 

Capt.  G.  —  It's  part  of  my  profession, 
y'know,  and  my  profession  is  a  good  deal  to 
me.  Everything  in  a  soldier's  equipment  is 
important,  and  if  we  can  improve  that  equip- 
ment, so  much  the  better  for  the  soldiers  and 
for  us. 

Mrs.  G.— Who's  ''us"? 

Capt.  G.  —  Jack  and  I,  though  Jack's 
notions  are  too  radical.  What's  that  big 
sigh  for,  Minnie  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  Oh,  nothing  .  .  .  and  you've 
kept  all  this  a  secret  from  me  !     Why  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  Not  a  secret,  exactly,  dear.  I 
didn't  say  anything  about  it  to  you  because  I 
didn't  think  it  would  amuse  you. 

Mrs.  G. — And  am  I  only  made  to  be 
amused  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  No,  of  course.  I  merely  mean 
that  It  couldn't  interest  you. 

Mrs.  G. —  It's  your  work  and  —  and  if  you'd 
let  me,  I'd  count  all  these  things  up.  If  they 
are  too  heavy,  you  know  by  how  much  they 
are  too  heavy,  and  you  must  have  a  list  of 
things  made  out  to  your  scale  of  lightness, 
and  — 


I20  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Capt.  G.  —  I  have  got  both  scales  some- 
where In  my  head  ;  but  It's  hard  to  tell  how 
light  you  can  make  a  headstall,  for  Instance, 
until  you've  actually  had  a  model  made. 

Mrs.  G.  —  But  If  you  read  out  the  list,  I 
could  copy  it  down,  and  pin  It  up  there  just 
above  your  table.     Wouldn't  that  do  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  It  would  be  awf 'ly  nice,  dear, 
but  It  would  be  giving  you  trouble  for  noth- 
ing. I  can't  work  that  way.  I  go  by  rule  of 
thumb.  I  know  the  present  scale  of  weights, 
and  the  other  one  —  the  one  that  I'm  trying 
to  work  to  —  will  shift  and  vary  so  much  that 
I  couldn't  be  certain,  even  if  I  wrote  It  down. 

Mrs.  G. —  I'm  so  sorry.  I  thought  I  might 
help.  Is  there  anything  else  that  I  could  be 
of  use  In  ? 

Capt.  G. —  (^Looking  round  the  room.)  I 
can't  think  of  anything.  You're  always  help- 
ing me,  you  know. 

Mrs.  G.— Ami?     How? 

Capt.  G.  —  You  are  you  of  course,  and  as 
long  as  you're  near  me  —  I  can't  explain 
exactly,  but  it's  In  the  air. 


,^^1^ 


FATIMA.  121 

Mrs.  G.  —  And  that's  why  you  wanted  to 
send  me  away? 

Capt.  G.  —  That's  only  when  I'm  trying  to 
do  work  —  grubby  work  like  this. 

Mrs.  G.  —  Mafflin's  better,  then,  isn't  he? 

Capt.  G.  — (^Rashly.)  Of  course  he  is. 
Jack  and  I  have  been  thinking  down  the 
same  groove  for  two  or  three  years  aUgut  this 
equipment.  It's  our  hobby,  and  it  may  really 
be  useful  some  day. 

Mrs.  G.  —  {After  a  pause ^  And  that's 
all  that  you  have  away  from  me  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  It  isn't  very  far  away  from  you 
now.  Take  care  that  the  oil  on  that  bit 
doesn't  come  off  on  your  dress. 

Mrs.  G.  —  I  wish  —  I  wish  so  much  that 
I  could  really  help  you.  I  believe  I  could 
.  .  .  if  I  left  the  room.  But  that's  not  what 
I  mean. 

Capt.  G.  —  (Aside.)  Give  me  patience  ! 
I  wish  she  would  go.  {Aloud.)  I  assure 
you  you  can't  do  anything  for  me,  Minnie,  and 
I  must  really  settle  down  to  this.  Where's 
my  pouch  ? 


122  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Mrs.  G.  : — {Crossing  to  writing-table^ 
Here  you  are,  Bear.  What  a  mess  you  keep 
your  table  In  ! 

Capt.  G.  —  Don't  touch  it.  There's  a 
method  In  my  madness,  though  you  mightn't 
think  It. 

Mrs.  Q,—  {At  table)  I  want  to  look. 
.  .  .  Do  you  keep  accounts,  Pip  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  {Bending  over  saddlery?)  Of 
a  sort.  Are  you  rummaging  among  the 
Troop  papers  ?     Be  careful. 

Mrs.  G. — Why?  I  shan't  disturb  any- 
thing. Good  gracious  !  I  had  no  Idea  that 
you  had  anything  to  do  with  so  many  sick 
horses. 

Capt.  G.  —  'Wish  I  hadn't,  but  they  Insist 
on  falling  sick.  Minnie,  If  I  were  you  I 
really  should  not  Investigate  those  papers. 
You  may  come  across  something  that  you 
won't  like. 

Mrs.  G.  — Why  will  you  always  treat  me 
like  a  child  ?  I  know  I'm  not  displacing  the 
horrid  things. 

Capt.  G.  —  {Resignedly.)    \'cry  well,  then. 


FA  TIM  A.  123 

Don't  blame  me  if  anything  happens.  Play 
with  the  table  and  let  me  go  on  with  the 
saddlery.  {Slipping  hand  into  trousers- 
pocket.^     Oh,  the  deuce ! 

Mrs.  G.  —  i^Her  back  to  G.)  What's  that 
for? 

Capt.  G.  —  Nothing.  (Aside.)  There's 
not  much  of  importance  in  it,  but  I  wish  I'd 
torn  it  up. 

Mrs.  G.  —  (  Turning  over  contents  of  table ^ 
I  know  you'll  hate  me  for  this  ;  but  I  do  want 
to  see  what  your  work  is  like.  (A  pause?) 
Pip,  what  are  ''  farcy-buds  "  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  Hah  !  Would  you  really  like 
to  know  ?     They  aren't  pretty  things. 

Mrs.  G.  —  This  Journal  of  Veterinary 
Science  says  they  are  of  "absorbing  inter- 
est."    Tell  me. 

Capt.  G.  —  (Aside?)  It  may  turn  her 
attention. 

Gives  a  long  and  designedly  loathsome 
account  o^  glanders  and  farcy. 

Mrs.  G.  —  Oh,  that's  enough.  Don't  go 
on  ! 


124  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Caff.  G.  But  you  wanted  to  know.  .  .  . 
Then  these  things  suppurate  and  matterate 
and  spread  — 

Mrs.  G.  —  Pip,  you're  making  me  sick  ! 
You're  a  horrid,  disgusting  school-boy. 

Capt.  G.  —  ( On  his  knees  among  the 
bridles^  You  asked  to  be  told.  It's  not  my 
fault  if  you  worry  me  into  talking  about 
horrors. 

Mrs.  G.  —  Why  didn't  you  say  —  No  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  Good  Heavens,  child  !  Have 
you  come  in  here  simply  to  bully  me  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  I  bully  you  ?  How  could  I  ! 
You're  so  strong.  {Hysterically?)  Strong 
enough  to  pick  me  up  and  put  me  outside 
the  door,  and  leave  me  there  to  cry.  Aren't 
you  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  It  seems  to  me  that  you're  an 
irrational  little  baby.     Are  you  quite  well  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  Do  I  look  ill  ?  .  {Rettirning  to 
table.)  Who  is  your  lady  friend  with  the 
big  gray  envelope  and  the  fat  monogram 
outside  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  {Aside.')     Then    it  wasn't    in 


FATIMA.  125 

the  drawers,  confound  it.  {Aloud.)  *'  God 
made  her,  therefore  let  her  pass  for  a 
woman."  You  remember  what  farcy-buds 
are  like  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  {Showing  envelope.)  This  has 
nothing  to  do  with  them.  I'm  going  to  open 
it.     May  I  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  Certainly,  if  you  want  to.  I'd 
sooner  you  didn't,  though.  I  don't  ask  to 
look  at  your  letters  to  the  Deercourt  girl. 

Mrs.  G.  —  You'd  better  not.  Sir  !  (  Takes 
letter  from  envelope?)  Now,  may  I  look  ? 
If  you  say  no,  I  shall  ciy. 

Capt.  G.  —  You've  never  cried  in  my 
knowledge  of  you,  and  I  don't  believe  you 
could. 

Mrs.  G.  —  I  feel  very  like  it  to-day,  Pip. 
Don't  be  hard  on  me.  {Reads  letter?)  It 
begins  in  the  middle,  without  any  ''  Dear 
Captain  Gadsby,"  or  anything.     How  funny  ! 

CAn\  G.  — {Aside.)  No,  it's  not  Dear 
Captain  Gadsby,  or  anything,  now.  How 
funny ! 

Mrs.  G.-   What  a  strange  letter  !    {Reads.) 


126  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

*'  And  SO  the  moth  has  come  too  near  the 
candle  at  last,  and  has  been  singed  into  — 
shall  I  say  Respectability  ?  I  congratulate 
him,  and  hope  he  will  be  as  happy  as  he 
deserves  to  be."  What  does  that  mean  ?  Is 
she  congratulating  you  about  our  marriage  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  Yes,  I  suppose  so. 

Mrs.  G.  —  instill  reading  letter?)  She 
seems  to  be  a  particular  friend  of  yours. 

Capt.  G.  —  Yes.  She  was  excellent  matron 
of  sorts  —  a  Mrs.  Herriott  —  wife  of  a 
Colonel  Herriott.  I  used  to  know  some  of 
her  people  at  Home  long  ago  —  before  I 
came  out. 

Mrs.  G.  —  Some  Colonels'  wives  are  young 
—  as  young  as  me.  I  knew  one  who  was 
younger. 

CAFr.  G.  — Then  it  couldn't  have  been  Mrs. 
Herriott.  She  was  old  enough  to  have  been 
your  mother,  dear. 

Mrs.  G.  —  I  remember  now.  Mrs.  Scargill 
was  talking  about  her  at  the  Duffins'  tennis, 
before  you  came  for  me,  on  Tuesday.  Cap- 
tain Mafflin  said  she  was  a  "  dear  old  woman." 


FAIIMA.  127 

Do  you  know,  I  think  Mafflin  is  a  very  clumsy 
man  with  his  feet. 

Capt.  G. — {Aside.)  Good  old  Jack! 
{Aloud.)     Why,  dear? 

Mrs.  G.  —  He  had  put  his  cup  down  on  the 
ground  then,  and  he  hterally  stepped  into  it. 
Some  of  the  tea  spirted  over  my  dress  —  the 
gray  one.      I  meant  to  tell  you  about  it  before. 

Caff.  G.  —  {Aside.)  There  are  the  mak- 
ings of  a  strategist  about  Jack,  though  his 
methods  are  coarse.  {Aloud.)  You'd  better 
get  a  new  dress,  then.  {Aside.)  Let  us 
pray  that  that  will  turn  her. 

Mrs.  G.  —  Oh,  it  isn't  stained  in  the  least. 
I  only  thought  that  I'd  tell  you.  {Returning 
to  letter.)  What  an  extraordinary  person  ! 
{Reads.)  *'  But  need  I  remind  you  that  you 
have  taken  upon  yourself  a  charge  of  ward- 
ship "  —  what  in  the  world  is  a  charge  of 
wardship  ? —  ''  which,  as  you  yourself  know, 
may  end  in  Consequences  "... 

Capt.  G.  —  {Aside.)  It's  safest  to  let  'em 
see  everything  as  they  come  across  it ;  but 
'seems  to  me  that  there  are  exceptions  to  the 


128  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS, 

rule.  {Alotcd.)  I  told  you  that  there  was 
nothing  to  be  gained  from  rearranging  my 
table. 

Mrs.  G.  —  {Absently.)  What  does  the 
woman  mean  ?  She  goes  on  talking  about 
Consequences  —  ''almost  inevitable  Conse- 
quences "  with  a  capital  C  —  for  half  a  page. 
{Fltcshing-  scarlet.)  Oh,  good  gracious ! 
How  abominable ! 

Capt.  G.  —  {Promptly.)  Do  you  think 
so  ?  Doesn't  it  show  a  sort  of  motherly  in- 
terest in  us  ?  {Aside.)  Thank  Heaven, 
Harry  always  wrapped  her  meaning  up  safely  ! 
{Aloud.)  Is  It  absolutely  necessary  to  go  on 
with  the  letter,  darling? 

Mrs.  G.  —  It's  Impertinent  —  it's  simply 
horrid.  What  right  has  this  woman  to  write 
in  this  way  to  you  ?     She  oughtn't  to. 

Capt.  G. — When  you  write  to  the  Deercourt 
girl,  I  notice  that  you  generally  fill  three  or  four 
/  sheets.  Can't  you  let  an  old  woman  babble 
on  paper  once  in  a  way  ?     She  means  well. 

Mrs.  G.  —  I  don't  care.  She  shouldn't 
write,  and  If  she  did,  you  ought  to  have  shown 
me  her  letter. 


FA  TIM  A,  129 

Capt.  G.  —  Can't  you  understan<J  why  I 
kept  it  to  myself,  or  must  I  explain  at  length 
■ — as  I  explained  the  farcy-buds? 

Mrs.  G.  —  (^Fzcrioiisly.)  Pip,  I  hate  you  ! 
This  is  as  bad  as  those  idiotic  saddle-bags  on 
the  floor.  Never  mind  whether  it  would 
please  me  or  not,  you  ought  to  have  given  it 
to  me  to  read. 

Capt.  G.  —  It  comes  to  the  same  thing. 
You  took  it  yourself. 

Mrs.  G.  —  Yes,  but  if  I  hadn't  taken  it, 
you  wouldn't  have  said  a  word.  I  think  this 
Harriet  Herriott  —  it's  like  a  name  in  a  book 
—  is  an  interfering  old  Thing. 

Capt.  G.  —  {Aside.)  So  long  as  you 
thoroughly  understand  that  she  is  old,  I  don't 
much  care  what  you  think.  (A/oud.)  Very 
good,  dear.  Would  you  like  to  write  and  tell 
her  so  ?     She's  seven  thousand  miles  away. 

Mrs.  G.  —  I  don't  want  to  have  anything 
to  do  with  her,  but  you  ought  to  have  told 
me.  i^TMrning  to  last  page  of  letter^  And 
she  patronizes  7ne,  too.  /'ve  never  seen  her  ! 
iJKeads.)      "I    do  not  know  how  the  world 


130  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS, 

Stands  with  you.  In  all  human  probability  I 
shall  never  know  ;  but  whatever  I  may  have 
said  before,  I  pray  for  her  sake  more  than  for 
yours  that  all  may  be  well.  *  I  have  learnt 
what  misery  means,  and  I  dare  not  wish  that 
any  one  dear  to  you  should  share  my  knowl- 
edge." 

Capt.  G.  —  Good  God  !  Can't  you  leave 
that  letter  alone,  or,  at  least,  can't  you  refrain 
from  reading  it  aloud  ?  I've  been  through  it 
once.  Put  it  back  on  the  desk.  Do  you 
hear  me  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  {Ir7^esohitely.)  I  sh  —  sha'n't ! 
i^Looks  at  G.'s  eyes^  Oh,  Pip,  please  !  I 
didn't  mean  to  make  you  angry  —  'Deed,  I 
didn't.  Pip,  I'm  so  sorry.  I  know  I've 
wasted  your  time  ... 

Capt.  G. —  {Grimly.)  You  have.  Now, 
will  you  be  good  enough  to  go  ...  if  there 
is  nothing  more  in  my  room  that  you  are 
anxious  to  pry  into  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  {Putting  out  her  hands.)  Oh, 
Pip,  don't  look  at  me  like  that !  I've  never 
seen  you  look  like  that  before  and  it  hu-urts 


FATIMA.  131 

me !  I'm  sorry.  I  oughtn't  to  have  been 
here  at  all,  and  —  and  —  and — {sobbing). 
Oh,  be  good  to  me !  Be  good  to  me ! 
There's  only  you  —  anywhere  ! 

Breaks  doivn  in  long  chair,  hiding  face  in 
cushions. 

Capt.  G.  —  (Aside.)  She  doesn't  know 
how  she  flicked  me  on  the  raw.  (A/oud, 
bending  over  chair.)  I  didn't  mean  to  be 
harsh,  dear  —  I  didn't  really.  You  can  stay 
here  as  long  as  you  please,  and  do  what  you 
please.  Don't  cry  like  that.  You'll  make 
yourself  sick.  (Aside.)  What  on  earth 
has  come  over  her  ?  (A/o/id.)  Darling, 
what's  the  matter  with  you  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  (Her  face  still  hidden^  Let 
me  go —  let  me  go  to  my  own  room.  Only 
—  only  say  you  aren't  angry  with  me. 

Capt.  G. — Angry  with  yo7i,  love!  Of 
course  not.  I  was  angry  with  myself.  I'd 
lost  my  temper  over  the  saddlery.  .  .  .  Don't 
hide  your  face,  Pussy.     I  want  to  kiss  it. 

Bends  lozver,  Mrs.  G.  slides  right  arm 
round  his  neck.  Several  interludes  and  much 
sobbing. 


132  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Mf<s.  G. —  {In  a  whisper.')  I  didn't  mean 
about  the  jam  when  I  came  in  to  tell  you  — 

Capt.  G.  —  Bother  the  jam  and  the  equip- 
ment !     (^Interlude?) 

Mrs.  G.  —  {^Still  more  faintly?)  My  fin- 
ger wasn't  scalded  2X  all.  I  —  I  wanted  to 
speak  to  you  about  —  about  —  something 
else,  and  —  I  didn't  know  how. 

Capt.  G.  —  Speak  away,  then.  (^Looking 
into  her  eyes.)  Eh!  Wha  —  at?  Minnie! 
Here,  don't  go  away  !     You  don't  mean  ? 

Mrs.  G. —  {Hystencally,  bacJzing  to  porti- 
ere and  hiding  her  face  in  its  folds?)  The 
—  the  Almost  Inevitable  Consequences! 
{Flits  thivugh  portiere  as  G.  attempts  to  catch 
her,  and  bolts  herself  in  her  own  room.) 

Capt.  G.  —  {His  arms  full  of  portiere.) 
Oh  !  {Sitting  down  heavily  in  chair.)  I'm 
a  brute  —  a  pig  —  a  bully,  and  a  blackguard. 
My  poor,  poor  little  darling!  *'  Made  to  be 
amused  only !  "  .   .   . 

CURTAIN. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW. 


"  Knowing  Good  and  Evil." 

Scene.  —  The  Gadsbys  bi^ngalow  in  the 
Plams,  i7i  June.  pMnkah-coolies  asleep 
in  veranda  where  Capt.  Gadsby  is  walking 
up  and  down.  Doctor^  (rap  in  porch. 
Junior  Chavlai^  Jlticltiating-  generally  and 
uneasily  through  the  house.  Time,  3.40 
A.M.      Heat  94^  in  veranda. 

Doctor.  —  {^Coming  into  veranda  and 
touching  G.  on  the  shoulder.^  You  had 
better  go  in  and  see  her  now. 

Capt.  G.  —  {The  color  of  good  cigar -ash. ^ 
Eh,  wha-at  ?  Oh,  yes,  of  course.  What  did 
you  say  ? 

Doctor.  —  {Syllable  by  syllable?)  Go  — 
in  —  to  —  the  —  room  —  and  —  see  —  her. 
133 


134  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS, 

She  wants  to  speak  to  you.  {Aside,  testily.) 
I  shall  have  him  on  my  hands  next. 

JUxNiOR  Chaplain.  —  {In  half -lighted  din- 
ing-room.)    Isn't  there  any  —  ? 

Doctor.  —  {Savagely^  Hsh,  you  little 
fool ! 

Junior  Chaplain.  —  Let  me  do  my  work. 
Gadsby,  stop  a  minute  !      {Edges  after  G.) 

Doctor.  —  Wait  till  she  sends  for  you  at 
least  —  at  least.  Man  alive,  he'll  kill  you  if 
you  go  in  there  !  What  are  you  bothering 
him  for  ? 

Junior  Chaplain.  —  ( Coming  into  ver- 
anda?) I've  given  him  a  stiff  brandy-peg. 
He  wants  it.  You've  forgotten  him  for  the 
last  ten  hours  and  —  forgotten  yourself  too. 

G.  enters  bedroom,  which  is  lit  by  one 
night-light.  Ayah  on  the  floor  pretending  to 
be  asleep. 

Voice. —  {From  the  bed.)  All  down  the 
street  —  such  bonfires!  Ayah,  go  and  put 
them  out!  {Appealingly.)  How  can  1 
sleep  with  an  installation  of  the  C.  I.  E.  in 
my  room  ?  No  —  not  C,  I.  E.  Something 
else.      What  was  it  ? 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW.         1 35 

,  Capt.  G.  —  (  Trying  to  control  his  voice. ^ 
Minnie,  I'm  here.  (^Bending  over  bed,) 
Don't  you  know  me,  Minnie  ?  It's  me  —  it's 
Phil  —  it's  your  husband. 

Voice.  —  (^Mechanically.)  It's  me  —  it's 
Phil  —  it's  your  husband. 

Caft.  G.  —  She  doesn't  know  me!  .  .  , 
It's  your  own  husband,  darling. 

Voice.  — Your  own  husband,  darling. 

Ayah.  —  (^With  an  inspiration?)  Mem- 
sahib  understanding  all  /  saying. 

Capt.  G.  —  Make  her  understand  me  then 
—  quick ! 

Ayah.  —  {Hand  on  Mrs.  G.'s  forehead,) 
Memsahib!  Captain  Sahib  ay  a. 

Voice.  —  Salam  do.  {Fretfully.)  I 
know  I'm  not  fit  to  be  seen. 

Ayah.  —  {Aside  to  G.)  Say  ''  marneen'' 
same  as  at  breakfash. 

Capt.  G. —  Good  morning,  little  woman. 
How  are  we  to-day  ? 

Voice.  —  That's  Phil.  Poor  old  Phil. 
(  Viciously.)  Phil,  you  fool,  I  can't  see  you. 
Come  nearer. 


136  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Capt.  G.  —  Minnie  !  Minnie  !  It's  me  — 
you  know  me  ? 

Voice.  —  {Mockingly.)  Of  course  I  do. 
Who  does  not  know  the  man  who  was  so 
cruel  to  his  wife  —  almost  the  only  one  he 
ever  had  ? 

Capt.  G.  — Yes,  dear.  Yes  —  of  course, 
of  course.  But  won't  you  speak  to  him  ? 
He  wants  to  speak  to  you  so  much. 

Voice. — They'd  never  let  him  in.  The 
Doctor  would  give  darwaza  band  even  if  he 
were  in  the  house.  He'll  never  come. 
{Despairingly ^  Oh,  Judas  !  Judas ! 
Judas  ! 

Capt.  G.  —  {Putting  02U  his  arms.)  They 
have  let  him  in,  and  he  always  was  in  the 
house.     Oh,  my  love  —  don't  you  know  me  ? 

Voice.  —  {In  a  half  chant.)  ''  And  It 
came  to  pass  at  the  eleventh  hour  that  this 
poor  soul  repented."  It  knocked  at  the 
gates,  but  they  were  shut  —  tight  as  a  plas- 
ter —  a  great,  burning  plaster.  They  had 
pasted  our  marriage  certificate  all  across  the 
door,   and    it  was    made    of   red-hot    iron  — 


.     THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW.         137 

people  really  ought  to  be  more  careful,  you 
know. 

Capt.  G.  —  \\' hat  am  I  to  do  ?  (  Takes 
her  in  his  arnis.^  Minnie  !  speak  to  me  — 
to  Phil. 

Voice. — What  shall  I  say?  Oh.  tell  me 
what  to  say  before  it's  too  late  !  They  are 
all  going  away  and  I  can't  say  anything. 

Capt.  G.  —  Say  you  know  me  !  Only  say 
you  know  me ! 

Doctor. —  (^Who  has  entered  quietly^ 
For  pity's  sake  don't  take  it  too  much  to 
heart,  Gadsby.  It's  this  way  sometimes. 
They  won't  recognize.  They  say  all  sorts  of 
queer  things  —  don't  you  see  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  All  right!  All  right!  Go 
away  now  ;  she'll  recognize  me  ;  you're  both- 
ering her.     She  must — mustn't  she,  Doc? 

Doctor.  —  She  will  before  .  .  .  Have  I 
your  leave  to  try  — 

Cai^.  G.  —  Anything  you  please,  so  long 
as  she'll  know  me.  It's  only  a  question  of 
—  hours,  isn't  it  ? 

Doctor.  —  {Professionally ?j   While  there's 


138  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS, 

life    there's  hope,  y'know.     But  don't  build 
on  it. 

Capt.  G.  —  I  don't.  Pull  her  together  if 
it's  possible.  (Aside.)  What  have  I  done 
to  deserve  this  ? 

Doctor.  —  (^Bending  over  bed.)  Now, 
Mrs.  Gadsby !  We  shall  be  all  right  to- 
morrow. You  must  take  it,  or  I  sha'n't  let 
Phil  see  you.     It  isn't  nasty,  is  it  ? 

Voice.  —  Medicines  !  Always  more  medi- 
cines !     Can't  you  leave  me  alone  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  Oh,  leave  her  in  peace.  Doc  ! 

Doctor.  —  (  Stepping  back,  —  aside.)  May 
I  be  forgiven  if  I've  done  wrong.  {Aloud.) 
In  a  few  minutes  she  ought  to  be  sensible  ; 
but  I  daren't  tell  you  to  look  for  anything. 
It's  only  — 

Capt.  G.  — What?     Go  on,  man. 

Doctor.  —  {In  a  whisper.)  Forcing  the 
last  rally. 

Capt.  G.  —  Then  leave  us  alone. 

Doctor.  —  Don't  mind  what  she  says  at 
first,  if  you  can.  They  .  .  .  they  .  .  .  they 
turn  against  those  they  love  most  sometimes 
in  this  .   .  .  It's  hard,  but  .  .  . 


THE   VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW.         1 39 

Capt.  G.  —  Am  I  her  husband  or  are  you  ? 
Leave  us  alone  for  whatever  time  we  have 
together. 

Voice. —  (^Conjidentially.')  And  we  were 
engaged  quite  suddenly,  Emma.  I  assure 
you  that  I  never  thought  of  it  for  a  moment : 
but  O  my  Httle  Me  !  —  I  don't  know  what 
I  should  have  done  if  he  hadnt  proposed. 

Capt.  G.  —  She  thinks  of  that  Deercourt 
girl  before  she  thinks  of  me.  {^Alotui.y 
Minnie  ! 

Voice.  —  Not  from  the  shops,  Mummy 
dear.  You  can  get  the  real  leaves  from 
Kaintu,  and  {laughing  weakly)  never  mind 
about  the  blossoms  .  .  .  Dead  white  silk  is 
only  fit  for  widows,  and  I  zuont  wear  it.  It's 
as  bad  as  a  winding-sheet.      {A  long  pause.) 

Capt.  G.  —  I  never  asked  a  favor  )et.  If 
there  is  anybody  to  listen  to  me,  let  her 
know  me  —  even  if  I  die  too  ! 

Voice. —  (  Very  faintly.)      Pip,  Pip  dear. 

Caff;  G.  —  I'm  here,  darling. 

Voice.  —  What  has  happened  ?  They've 
been   bothering  me    so  with    medicines  and 


140  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

things,  and  they  wouldn't  let  you  come  and  see 
me.    I  was  never  111  before.     Am  I  111  now  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  You  —  you  aren't  quite  well. 

Voice.  —  How  funny  !  Have  I  been  ill 
long? 

Capt.  G.  —  Some  days  ;  but  you'll  be  all 
right  in  a  little  time. 

Voice.  —  Do  you  think  so,  Pip  ?  I  don't 
feel  well  and  .  .  .  Oh  !  what  have  they  done 
to  my  hair  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  I  d-d-don't  know. 

Voice.  —  They've  cut  it  off.  What  a 
shame ! 

Capt.  G.  — It  must  have  been  to  make 
your  head  cooler. 

Voice.  —  'J^^^  ^^^^  ^  boy's  wig.  Don't  I 
look  horrid  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  Never  looked  prettier  In  your 
life,  dear.  {Aside ^  How  am  I  to  ask  her 
to  say  good-by  ? 

Voice.  —  I  don't  feel  pretty.  I  feel  vQ.ry 
ill.  My  heart  won't  work.  It's  nearly  dead 
inside  me,  and  there's  a  funny  feeling  In  my 
eyes.     Everything  seems  the  same  distance 


THE  VALLEY  OE  THE  SHADOW.         141 

—  you  and  the  almirah  and  the  table  —  In- 
side my  eyes  or  miles  away.  What  does  it 
mean,  Pip? 

Capt.  G.  —  You're  a  little  feverish.  Sweet- 
heart—  very  feverish.  {^Breaking  dozvn.) 
My  love  !  my  love  !      How  can  I  let  you  go  ? 

Voice.  —  I  thought  so.  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me  that  at  first  ? 

Caff.  G.— What? 

Voice.  — That  I  am  going  to  .   .   .  die. 

Capt.  G.  —  But  you  aren't !     You  sha'n't. 

Ayah.  —  (^Stepping  into  veranda  after  a 
glance  at  the  bed.)     Punkah  chor  do  ! 

Voice.  —  It's  hard,  Pip.  So  very,  very 
hard  after  one  year  — just  one  year.  (  Wail- 
ing^ And  Fm  only  twenty.  Most  girls 
aren't  even  married  at  twenty.  Can't  they  do 
anything  to  help  me  ?     I  don't  wa^it  to  die. 

Capt.  G.  —  Hush,  dear.     You  won't. 

Voice.  —  What's  the  use  of  talking  ?  Help 
me  !  You've  never  failed  me  yet.  Oh,  Phil, 
help  me  to  keep  alive.  (^Fez'erishly.)  I  don't 
believe  you  wish  me  to  live.  You  weren't  a 
bit  sorry  when  that  horrid  Baby  thing  died. 
I  wish  I'd  killed  Baby ! 


142  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBVS. 

Capt.  G.  —  (^Drawing  his  hand  across  his 
forehead.)  It's  more  than  a  man's  meant  to 
bear  —  it's  not  right.  i^Alotcd.)  Minnie, 
love,  I'd  die  for  you  if  it  would  help. 

Voice.  —  No  more  death.  There's  enough 
already.     Pip,  don  i  you  die  too. 

Capt.  G.  —  I  wish  I  dared. 

Voice.  —  It    says  :  —  "  Till    Death    do    us 

part."     Nothing   after    that  .  .   .  and    so    it 

would    be   no   use.     It   stops    at  the    dying. 

Why  does  it  stop  there  ?     Onl)'  such  a  very 

short  life,  too.     Pip,  I'm  sorry  we  married. 

Capt.  G,  —  No  !  Anything  but  that, 
Min! 

Voice.  —  Because  you'll  forget  and  I'll  for- 
get. Oh,  Pip,  dont  forget !  I  always  loved 
you,  though  I  was  cross  sometimes.  If  I 
ever  did  anything  that  you  didn't  like,  say  you 
forgive  me  now. 

Capt.  G.  —  You  never  did,  darling.  On 
my  soul  and  honor  you  never  did.  1  haven't 
a  thing  to  forgive  you. 

Voice.  —  I  sulked  for  a  whole  week  about 
those  petunias.      {IVith  a  laugh.)     What  a 


THE   VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW.         1 43 

little  wretch  1  was,  and  how  grieved  you 
were  !     Forgive  me  that,  Pip. 

Capt.  G.  —  There's  nothing  to  forgive.  It 
was  my  fault.  They  were  too  near  the  drive. 
For  God's  sake  don't  talk  so,  Minnie  !  There's 
such  a  lot  to  say  and  so  little  time  to  say  it 
in. 

Voice.  —  Say  that  you'll  always  love  me  — 
until  the  end. 

Caff.  G. —  Until  the  end.  (  Carried  away?) 
It's  a  lie.  It  must  be,  because  we've  loved 
each  other.     This  isn't  the  end. 

Voice.  —  (^Relapsing  into  semi- delirium?) 
My  Church- service  has  an  ivory  cross  on  the 
back,  and  it  says  so,  so  it  must  be  true. 
"  Till  Death  do  us  part."  .  .  .  But  that's  a 
lie.  {IVith  a  parody  of  G.'s  manner?)  A 
damned  lie !  (^Recklessly?)  Yes,  I  can 
swear  as  well  as  Trooper  Pip.  I  can't  make 
my  head  think,  though.  That's  because  they 
cut  off  my  hair.  How  can  one  think  with 
one's  head  all  fuzzy  ?  {Pleadingly?)  Hold 
me,  Pip !  Keep  me  with  you  always  and 
always.     (^Relapsing?)      But    if    you    marry 


144  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

the  Thorniss  girl  when  I'm  dead,  I'll  come 
back  and  howl  under  our  bed-room  window 
all  night.  Oh,  bother  !  You'll  think  I'm  a 
jackal.     Pip,  what  time  is  it  ? 

Capt.   G.  —  A  little  before  the  dawn,  dear. 

Voice.  —  I  wonder  where  I  shall  be  this 
time  to-morrow  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  Would  you  like  to  see  the 
Padre  ? 

Voice.  —  Why  should  I  ?  He'd  tell  me 
that  I  am  going  to  heaven  ;  and  that  wouldn't 
be  true,  because  you  are  here.  —  Do  you 
recollect  when  he  upset  the  cream-ice  all 
over  his  trousers  at  the  Gassers'  tennis  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  Yes,  de?.r. 

Voice.  —  I  often  wondered  whether  he  got 
another  pair  of  trousers  ;  but  then  his  are  so 
shiny  all  over  that  you  really  couldn't  tell 
unless  you  were  told.  Let's  call  him  in  and 
ask. 

Capt.  G.  —  {Gravely.)  No.  I  don't  think 
he'd  like  that.  'Your  head  comfy,  Sweet- 
heart ? 

Voice.  —  {Faintly  with  a  sigh  of  content- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW,        145 

me7it.)  Yeth !  Gracious,  Pip,  when  did 
you  shave  last  ?  Your  chin's  worse  than  the 
barrel  of  a  musical  box.  .  .  .  No,  don't  lift 
It  up.  I  like  It.  {^A  pause.)  You  said  you've 
never  cried  at  all.  You're  crying  all  over  my 
cheek. 

Capt.    G.  —  I  —  I  —  I  can't  help  It,  dear. 

Voice.  —  How  funny !  I  couldn't  cry  now 
to  save  my  life.  (G.  shivers.)  I  want  to 
sing. 

Capt.  G.  —  Won't  it  tire  you  ?  'Better 
not,  perhaps. 

Voice.  —  Why  ?  I  wont  be  ordered  about ! 
(^Begins  in  a  hoarse  quaver)  :  — 

Minnie  bakes  oaten  cake,  Minnie  brews  ale, 
All  because  her  Johnnie's  coming  home  from  the  sea 
(That's  parade,  Pip). 

And  she  grows  red  as  rose  who  was  so  pale  : 
And  ''  Are  you  sure  the  church-clock  goes  ?  "  says  she. 

{Pettishly.)  I  knew  I  couldn't  take  the 
last  note.  How  do  the  bass  chords  run? 
i^Puts  out  her  hands  and  begi^is  playi^tg 
piano  071  the  sheet ^ 


146  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS, 

Capt.  G.  —  {^Catching  up  hands ^  Ah! 
Don't  do  that,  Pussy,  if  you  love  me. 

Voice.  —  Love  you  ?  Of  course  I  do. 
Who  else  should  it  be?      {A pause?) 

Voice.  —  (  Very  clearly.^  Pip,  I'm  going 
now.  Something's  choking  me  cruelly.  {In- 
distinctly^ Into  the  dark  .  .  .  without  you, 
my  heart.  .  .  .  But  it's  a  lie,  dear  ...  we 
mustn't  believe  it.  .  .  .  Forever  and  ever, 
living  or  dead.  Don't  let  me  go,  my  hus- 
band —  hold  me  tight.  .  .  .  They  can't  .  .  . 
whatever  happens.  {A  cough.)  Pip  —  my 
Pip!  Not  for  always  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  so  .  .  . 
soon  !      (  Voice  ceases.) 

Pause  of  teit  minutes.  G.  buries  his  face 
in  the  side  of  the  bed  while  Ayah  bends  over 
bed  from  opposite  side  and  feels  Mrs.  G's 
breast  and  forehead. 

Capt.  G.  —  {Rising.)  Doctor  Sahib  ko 
salaam  do. 

Ayah.  —  {Still  by  bedside,  with  a  shriek.) 
Ai !  Ai !  Tuta  —phuta  I  My  Memsahib  ! 
Not  getting  —  not  have  got  —  Pusseena 
agya  I  {Fiercely  to  G.)  TuM  jao  Doctor 
Sahib  kojaldi  !     Oh  !  my  Memsahib  I 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW,        147 

Doctor.  —  (^Entering  hastily?)  Come 
away,  Gadsby.  {^Bends  over  bed.)  Eh  ?  The 
Dev  —  What  inspired  you  to  stop  the  pun- 
kah ?  Get  out,  man  —  go  away  —  wait  out- 
side !  Go  !  Here,  Ayah  !  (  Over  his  shout- 
der  to  G.)      Mind,  I  promise  nothing. 

The  dawn  breaks  as  G.  stumbles  into  the 
garden. 

Capt.  M.  —  {Reining  tip  at  the  gate  on 
his  way  to  parade  and  very  soberly.)  Old 
man,  how  goes  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  {Dazed.)  1  don't  quite  know. 
Stay  a  bit.  Have  a  drink  or  something. 
Don't  run  away.  You're  just  getting  amus- 
ing.    Ha !     Ha ! 

Capt.  M.  —  {Aside.)  What  am  I  let  in 
for  ?     Gaddy  has  aged  ten  years  in  the  night. 

Capt.  G.  —  ( Slowly,  fingering  charger  s 
headstall.)     Your  curb's  too  loose. 

Caff.  M.  —  So  it  is.  Put  it  straight,  will 
you?  {Aside.)  I  shall  be  late  for  parade. 
Poor  Gaddy ! 

Capt.  G.  links  and  unlinks  curb-chain  aim- 
lessly, and  finally  stands  staring  towards  the 
veranda.      2he  day  brightens. 


148  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Doctor.  —  (^Knocked  out  of  professio7tal 
gravity,  tramping  across  floiver-beds  and 
shaking  G.'s  hands.)  It's  —  it's  —  It's  !  — 
Gadsby,  there's  a  fair  chance  —  a  dashed  fair 
chance !  The  flicker,  y'know.  The  sweat, 
y'know !  I  saw  how  It  would  be.  The  pun- 
kah, y'know.  Deuced  clever  woman  that 
Ayah  of  yours.  Just  at  the  right  time.  A 
dashed  good  chance  !  No  —  you  don't  go  In. 
We'll  pull  her  through  yet.  I  promise  on  my 
reputation  —  under  Providence.  Send  a  man 
with  this  note  to  BIngle.  Two  heads  better 
than  one.  'Specially  the  Ayah  !  Well  pull 
her  round.      {Retreats  hastily  to  house?) 

Capt.  G.  —  i^His  head  on  neck  of  M.'s 
charger^  Jack!  I  bub  —  bub  —  believe, 
I'm  going  to  make  a  bub  —  bub  —  bloody 
exhibition  of  byself. 

Capt.  M.  —  {Sniffing  openly  and  feeling 
i7i  his  left  cuff.)  I  b-b  —  believe  I'b  doing- 
It  already.  Old  bad,  what  cad  I  say  ?  I'b  as 
pleased  as  —  Cod  dab  you,  Gaddy  !  You're 
one  big  idiot  and  I'b  adother.  {Pulling 
himself  together.)  Sit  tight !  Here  comes 
the  Devil  dodger. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW.         149 

Junior  Chaplain.  —  (  Who  is  not  in  the 
Doctor  s  confidence^  We  —  we  are  only  men 
in  these  things,  Gadsby.  I  know  that  I  can 
say  nothing  now  to  help  — 

Capt.  M.  —  {^Jealously?)  Then  don't  say 
it !  Leave  him  alone.  It's  not  bad  enough 
to  croak  over.  Here,  Gaddy,  take  the  chit  to 
Bingle  and  ride  hell-for-leather.  It'll  do  you 
good.     I  can't  go. 

Junior  Chaplain.  —  Do  him  good  !  {Smil- 
ing.) Give  me  the  chit  and  I'll  drive.  Let 
him  lie  down.  Your  horse  is  blocking  my 
cart  — please  I 

C AKr.  M .  —  (  Slowly,  iv ithout  rein ing  back. ) 
I  beg  your  pardon  —  I'll  apologize.  On  paper 
if  you  like. 

Junior  Chaplain.  —  {Flicki^ig  M.'s 
charger.)  That'll  do,  thanks.  Turn  in, 
Gadsby,  and  I'll  bring  Bingle  back  —  ahem 
—  "  hell-for-leather." 

Caff.  M.  —  (Soltis.)  It  would  ha'  served 
me  right  if  he  had  cut  me  across  the  face. 
He  can  drive  too.  I  shouldn't  care  to  go 
that  pace  in  a  bamboo  cart.     What  a  faith  he 


ISO  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBVS. 

must  have  in  his  Maker —  of  harness  !  Come 
kupy  you  brute  !  ( Gallops  off  to  parade, 
blowing  his  nose,  as  the  sun  rises ^ 

Interval  of  five  weeks. 

Mrs.  G.  —  {Very  white  and  pinched,  in 
morning  wrapper  at  breakfast  table?)  How 
big  and  strange  the  room  looks,  and  oh,  how 
glad  I  am  to  see  it  again  !  What  dust, 
though  !  I  must  talk  to  the  servants.  Sugar, 
Pip  ?  I've  almost  forgotten.  {Seriously^ 
Wasn't  I  very  ill  ? 

Capt.  G.  —  Iller  than  I  liked.  (  Te7tderly.) 
Oh,  you  bad  little  Pussy,  what  a  start  you 
gave  me ! 

Mrs.  G.  —  I'll  never  do  it  again. 

Capt.  G.  —  You'd  better  not.  And  now 
get  those  poor  pale  cheeks  pink  again,  or  I 
shall  be  angry.  Don't  try  to  lift  the  urn. 
You'll  upset  it.  Wait.  {Comes  round  to 
head  of  table  and  lifts  ?^r;/,) 

Mrs.  G.  —  {Quickly?)  Khitmatgar,  boiv- 
archi-khana  se  kettly  lao.  {Drawing  down 
Q!^  face  to  her  own.)     Pip  dear,  /  remember. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW,        151 

Capt.  G.  —  What  ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  That  last  terrible  night. 

Capt.  G.  —  Then  just  you  forget  all  about 
it. 

Mrs.  G. —  {Softly,  her  eyes  filling^ 
Never.  It  has  brought  us  very  close  together, 
my  husband.  There !  {Lzterlude.)  Vm 
going  to  give  Junda  a  sm^ee. 

Capt.  G.  —  I  gave  her  fifty  dibs. 

Mrs.  G.  —  So  she  told  me.  It  was  a  'nor- 
mous  reward.  Was  I  worth  it  ?  {Several  in- 
terhcdes.)  Don't !  Here's  the  kJiitmatgar. 
—  Two  lumps  or  one,  Sir? 

CURTAIN. 


THE   SWELLING   OF  JORDAN. 


"If  thou  hast  run  with  the  footmen  and  they  have  wea- 
ried thee,  then  how  canst  thou  contend  with  horses  ?  And 
if  in  the  land  of  peace  wherein  thou  trustedst  they  have 
wearied  thee,  how  wilt  thou  do  in  the  swelling  of  Jordan  ?  " 

Scene.  —  The     Gadsbys    lumgalow   in    the 

Plains,  on  a  January  morning,     Mrs.   G. 

arguing    with    bearer   in    back   veranda. 

Capt.  M.  rides  up. 

Capt.  M.  —  'Mornin',  Mrs.  Gadsby.  How's 
the  Infant  Phenomenon  and  the  Proud  Pro- 
prietor ? 

Mrs.  G.  —  You'll  find  them  in  the  front 
veranda  ;  go  through  the  house.  I'm  Martha 
just  now. 

Capt.  M.  —  'Cumbered  about  with  cares  of 
khitmatgars  ?     I  fly. 

Passes  into  front  veranda,  wJierc  Gadsby  is 
152 


THE  SWELLING  OFJORDAN.  153 

watching  Gadsby  junior,  setate  ten  months, 
crawling  about  the  matting, 

Capt.  M.  —  What's  the  trouble,  Gaddy  — 
spoiling  an  honest  man's  Europe  morning 
this  way?  {Seeing  G.  junior.)  By  Jove, 
that  yearling's  comin'  on  amazingly !  Any 
amount  of  bone  below  the  knee  there. 

Capt.  G.  —  Yes,  he's  a  healthy  little 
scoundrel.  Don't  you  think  his  hair's  grow- 
ing? 

M.  — Let's  have  a  look.  Hi!  Hst! 
Come  here.  General  Luck,  and  we'll  report 
on  you. 

Mrs.  G.  —  ( Within.)  What  absurd 
name  will  you  give  him  next  ?  Why  do  you 
call  him  that? 

M.  —  Isn't  he  our  Inspector-General  of 
Cavalry  ?  Doesn't  he  come  down  in  his 
seventeen-two  perambulator  every  morning 
the  Pink  Hussars  parade  ?  Don't  wriggle, 
Brigadier.  Give  us  your  private  opinion  on 
the  way  the  third  squadron  went  past. 
Trifle  ragged,  weren't  they? 

G.  —  A  bigger  set  of  tailors  than  the  new 


154  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

draft  I  don't  wish  to  see.  They've  given  me 
more  than  my  fair  share  —  knocking  the 
squadron  out  of  shape.     It's  sickening  ! 

M. — When  you're  in  command,  you'll  do 
better,  young  'un.  Can't  you  walk  yet  ? 
Grip  my  finger  and  try.  ^To  G.)  'Twon't 
hurt  his  hocks,  will  it  ? 

G.  —  Oh,  no.  Don't  let  him  flop,  though, 
or  he'll  lick  all  the  blacking  off  your  boots. 

Mrs.  G. —  {Withm.)  Who's  destroying 
my  son's  character  ? 

M. — And  my  Godson's.  I'm 'ashamed  of 
you,  Gaddy.  Punch  your  father  in  the  eye, 
Jack  !     Don't  you  stand  it !     Hit  him  again  ! 

G.  —  (^Sotto  voce.)  Put  The  Bute  ha  down 
and  come  to  the  end  of  the  veranda.  I'd 
rather  the  Wife  didn't  hear — just  now. 

M.  —  You  look  awf'ly  serious.  Anything 
wrong? 

G.  —  'Depends  on  your  view  entirely. 
I  say,  Jack,  you  won't  think  more  hardly 
of  me  than  you  can  help,  will  you  ? 
Come  further  this  way.  .  .  .  The  fact  of  the 
matter  is,  that   I've   made   up   my  mind  —  at 


^ 


THE  SWELLING  OE  JORDAN.  155 

least  I'm  thinking  seriously  of  .  .  .  cutting 
the  Service. 

M.  —  Hwhatt  ? 

G.  —  Don't  shout.  Fm  going  to  send  in 
my  papers. 

M.  —  You  !     Are  you  mad  ? 

G.  —  No  —  only  married. 

M.  —  Look  here  !  What's  the  meaning  of 
it  all  ?  You  never  intend  to  leave  us.  You 
cant.  Isn't  the  best  squadron  of  the  best 
regiment  of  the  best  cavalry  in  all  the  world 
good  enough  for  you  ? 

G.  —  (^Jerking  his  head  over  his  shoulder^ 
She  doesn't  seem  to  thrive  in  this  God-for- 
saken country,  and  there's  The  Butcha  to  be 
considered  and  all  that,  you  know. 

M.  —  Does  she  say  that  she  doesn't  like 
India? 

G. — That's  the  worst  of  it.  She  won't 
for  fear  of  leaving  me. 

M.  —  What  are  the  Hills  made  for  ? 

G.  —  Not  for  my  wife,  at  any  rate. 

M.  —  You  know  too  much,  Gaddy,  and  — 
I  don't  like  you  any  the  better  for  it ! 


156  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

G.  —  Never  mind  that.  She  wants 
England,  and  The  Butcha  would  be  all  the 
better  for  it.  I'm  going  to  chuck.  You  don't 
understand. 

M.  —  {Hotly.)  I  understand  this.  One 
hundred  and  thirty-seven  new  horses  to  be 
licked  into  shape  somehow  before  Luck 
comes  round  again ;  a  hairy-heeled  draft 
who'll  give  more  trouble  than  the  horses  ;  a 
camp  next  cold  weather  for  a  certainty ;  our- 
selves the  first  on  the  roster  ;  the  Russian 
shindy  ready  to  come  to  a  head  at  five  minutes' 
notice,  and  you,  the  best  of  us  all,  backing 
out  of  it  all !  Think  a  little,  Gaddy.  You 
zvont  do  it. 

G.  —  Hang  it,  a  man  has  some  duties 
towards  his  family,  I  suppose. 

M.  —  I  remember  a  man,  though,  who 
told  me,  the  night  after  Amdheran,  when  we 
were  picketed  under  Jagai,  and  he'd  left  his 
sword  —  by  the  w^ay,  did  you  ever  pay 
Ranken  for  that  sword  ?  —  in  an  Utmanzai's 
head  —  that  man  told  me  that  he'd  stick  by 
me  and  the  Pinks  as  long  as    he    lived.     I 


THE  SWELLING  OF  JORDAN.  1 57 

don't  blame  him  for  not  sticking  by  me  —  I'm 
not  much  of  a  man  —  but  I  do  blame  him  for 
not  sticking  by  the  Pink  Hussars. 

G. —  {Uneasily^  We  were  little  more 
than  boys  then.  Can't  you  see,  Jack,  how 
things  stand  ?  'Tisn't  as  if  we  were  serving 
for  our  bread.  We've  all  of  us,  more  or  less, 
got  the  filthy  lucre.  I'm  luckier  than  some, 
perhaps.     There's  no  call  for  me  to  serve  on. 

M.  —  None  in  the  world  for  you  or  for  us, 
except  the  Regimental.  If  you  don't  choose 
to  answer  to  that,  of  course  .  .  . 

G.  —  Don't  be  too  hard  on  a  man.  You 
know  that  a  lot  of  us  only  take  up  the  thing 
for  a  few  years  and  then  go  back  to  Town 
and  catch  on  with  the  rest. 

M.  —  Not  lots,  and  they  aren't  some  of 
Us, 

G.  —  And  then  there  are  one's  affairs  at 
Home  to  be  considered  —  my  place  and  the 
rents,  and  all  that.  I  don't  suppose  my 
father  can  last  much  longer,  and  that  means 
the  title,  and  so  on. 

M.  —  'Fraid  you  won't  be  entered  In  the 


158  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

Stud  Book  correctly  unless  you  go  Home  ? 
Take  six  months,  then,  and  come  out  in 
October.  If  I  could  slay  off  a  brother  or 
two,  I  s'pose  I  should  be  a  Marquis  of  sorts. 
Any  fool  can  be  that ;  but  it  needs  men, 
Gaddy  —  men  like  you  —  to  lead  flanking 
squadrons  properly.  Don't  you  delude  your- 
self into  the  belief  that  you're  going  Home 
to  take  your  place  and  prance  about  among 
pink- nosed  Cabuli  dowagers.  You  aren't 
built  that  way.     I  know  better. 

G.  —  A  man  has  a  right  to  live  his  life  as 
happily  as  he  can.      You  aren't  married. 

M.  —  No — praise  be  to  Providence  and 
the  one  or  two  women  who  have  had  the 
good  sense  X.o  jawab  me. 

G. — Then  you  don't  know  what  it  is  to 
go  into  your  own  room  and  see  your  wife's 
head  on  the  pillow,  and  when  everything  else 
is  safe  and  the  house  bunded  up  for  the  night, 
to  wonder  whether  the  roof-beams  won't  give 
and  kill  her. 

M.  —  {Aside.)  Revelations  first  and  sec- 
ond !      {Aloud.)      So-o !      I    knew   a    man 


THE  SWELLING  OF  JORDAN.  1 59 

who  got  squiffy  at  our  Mess  once  and  con- 
fided to  me  that  he  never  helped  his  wife  on 
to  her  horse  without  praying  that  she'd  break 
her  neck  before  she  came  back.  All  hus- 
bands aren't  alike,  you  see. 

G.  —  What  on  earth  has  that  to  do  with 
my  case  ?  The  man  must  ha'  been  mad,  or 
his  wife  as  bad  as  they  make  'em. 

yi.—  {Aside,)  'No  fault  of  yours  if 
either  weren't  all  you  say.  You've  forgotten 
the  time  when  you  were  insane  about  the 
Herriott  woman.  You  always  were  a  good 
hand  at  forgetting.  {Aloud,)  Not  more 
mad  than  men  who  go  to  the  other  extreme. 
Be  reasonable,  Gaddy.  Your  roof-beams  are 
sound  enough. 

G.  —  That  was  only  a  way  of  speaking. 
I've  been  uneasy  and  worried  about  the  Wife 
ever  since  that  awful  business  three  years 
ago  —  when  —  I  nearly  lost  her.  Can  you 
wonder  ? 

M.  —  Oh,  a  shell  never  falls  twice  in  the 
same  place.  You've  paid  your  toll  to  mis- 
fortune —  why  should  your  Wife  be  picked 
out  more  than  anybody  else's  ? 


l60  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

G.  —  I  can  talk  just  as  reasonably  as  you 
can,  but  you  don't  understand  —  you  don't 
understand.  And  then  there's  The  Butcha. 
Deuce  knows  where  the  Ayah  takes  him  to 
sit  In  the  evening !  He  has  a  bit  of  a 
cough.     Haven't  you  noticed  It  ? 

M.  —  Bosh  !  The  Brigadier's  jumping  out 
of  his  skin  with  pure  condition.  He's  got  a 
muzzle  like  a  rose-leaf  and  the  chest  of  a  two- 
year-old.     What's  demoralized  you  ? 

G.  —  Funk.  That's  the  long  and  the 
short  of  it.     Funk! 

M.  —  But  what  is  there  to  funk  ? 

G.  —  Everything.     It's  ghastly. 

M.— Ah!     I  see. 

"  You  don't  want  to  fight, 

And  by  Jingo  when  we  do. 
You've  got  the  kid,  you've  got  the  Wife, 

You've  got  the  money,  too." 

That's  about  the  case,  eh  ? 

G.  —  I  suppose  that's  it.  But  it's  not  for 
myself.  It's  because  of  them.  At  least,  I 
think  it  is. 

M.  —  Are  you  sure  ?     Looking  at  the  mat- 


THE  SWELLING  OF  JORDAN.  l6l 

ter  In  a  cold-blooded  light,  the  Wife  Is  pro- 
vided for  even  If  you  were  wiped  out  to- 
night. She  has  an  ancestral  home  to  go  to, 
money,  and  the  Brigadier  to  carry  on  the 
illustrious  name. 

G.  —  Then  It  Is  for  myself  or  because  they 
are  part  of  me.  You  don't  see  It.  My 
life's  so  good,  so  pleasant,  as  It  Is,  that  I 
want  to  make  It  quite  safe.  Can't  you 
understand  ? 

M.  —  Perfectly.  ''  Shelter -pit  for  the 
Orf'cer's  charger,"  as  they  say  In  the  Line. 

G.  —  And  I  have  everything  to  my  hand 
to  make  It  so.  I'm  sick  of  the  strain  and  the 
worry  for  their  sakes  out  here  ;  and  there 
Isn't  a  single  real  difficulty  to  prevent  my 
dropping  It  altogether.  It'll  only  cost  me 
.  .  .  Jack,  I  hope  you'll  never  know  the 
shame  that  I've  been  going  through  for  the 
past  six  months. 

M.  —  Hold  on  there  !  I  don't  wish  to  be 
told.  Every  man  has  his  moods  and  tenses 
sometimes. 

G. —  (^Laughing  bitterly?)   Has  he  ?  What 


l62  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

do  you  call  craning  over  to  see  where  the 
near- fore  lands  ? 

M.  —  In  my  case  it  means  that  I  have  been 
on  the  Considerable  Bend,  and  have  come  to 
parade  with  a  Head  and  a  Hand.  It  passes 
in  three  strides. 

G.  —  {^Lowering  voice?)  It  never  passes 
with  me,  Jack.  I'm  always  thinking  about  it. 
Phil  Gadsby  funking  a  fall  on  parade  !  Sweet 
picture,  isn't  it!     Draw  it  for  me. 

M.  —  (  Gravely?)  Heaven  forbid  !  A  man 
like  you  can't  be  as  bad  as  that.  A  fall  is  no 
nice  thing,  but  one  never  gives  it  a  thought. 

G.  —  Doesn't  one  ?  Wait  till  you've  got  a 
wife  and  a  youngster  of  your  own,  and  then 
you'll  know  how  the  roar  of  the  squadron 
behind  you  turns  you  cold  all  up  the  back. 

M.  —  {Aside?)  And  this  man  led  at 
Amdheran  after  Bagal-Deasin  went  under, 
and  we  were  all  mixed  up  together,  and  he 
came  out  of  the  show  dripping  like  a  butcher  ! 
{Aloud.)  Skittles!  The  men  can  always 
open  out,  and  you  can  always  pick  your 
way  more  or  less.      We  haven't  the  dust  to 


THE  SWELLING  OF  JORDAN.  163 

bother  us,  as  the  men  have,  and  whoever 
heard  of  a  horse  stepping  on  a  man  ? 

G.  —  Never  —  as  long  as  he  can  see.  But 
did  they  open  out  for  poor  Errington  ? 

M.  —  Oh,  this  is  childish  ! 

G.  —  I  know  it  is,  and  worse  than  that.  I 
don't  care.  You've  ridden  Van  Loo.  Is  he 
the  sort  of  brute  to  pick  his  way  —  'specially 
when  we're  coming  up  in  column  of  troop 
with  any  pace  on  ? 

M.  —  Once  in  a  Blue  Moon  do  we  gallop 
in  column  of  troop,  and  then  only  to  save 
time.     Aren't  three  lengths  enough  for  you  ? 

G.  —  Yes  —  quite  enough.  They  just 
allow  for  the  full  developm.ent  of  the  smash. 
I'm  talking  like  a  cur,  I  know  :  but  I  tell  you 
that,  for  the  past  three  months,  I've  felt  every 
hoof  of  the  squadron  in  the  small  of  my 
back  every  time  that  I've  led. 

M.  —  But,  Gaddy,  this  is  awful ! 

G.  — Isn't  it  lovely?  Isn't  it  royal?  A 
Captain  of  the  Pink  Hussars  watering  up  his 
charger  before  parade  like  the  blasted  booz- 
ing Colonel  of  a  Black  Regiment ! 


1 64  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

M.  —  You  never  did  ! 

G.  —  Once  only.  He  squelched  like  a 
mussMcky  and  the  Troop -Sergeant -Major 
cocked  his  eye  at  me.  You  know  old  Haffy's 
eye.     I  was  afraid  to  do  It  again. 

M.  —  I  should  think  so.  That  was  the 
best  way  to  rupture  old  Van  Loo's  tummy, 
and  make  him  crumple  you  up.  You  knew 
that. 

G.  —  I  didn't  care.  It  took  the  ^dg^  off 
him. 

M.  —  *'  Took  the  edge  off  him  !  "  Gaddy, 
you  —  you  —  you  mustnt,  you  know  !  Think 
of  the  men. 

G.  —  That's  another  thing  I  am  afraid  of. 
D'you  s'pose  they  know  ? 

M.  —  Let's  hope  not ;  but  they're  deadly 
quick  to  spot  skrim  —  little  things  of  that 
kind.  See  here,  old  man,  send  the  Wife 
Home  for  the  hot  weather  and  come  to 
Kashmir  with  me.  We'll  start  a  boat  on  the 
Dal  or  cross  the  Rhotang  —  ibex  or  idleness 
—  which  you  please.  Only  come  !  You're 
a  bit  off  your  oats  and  you're  talking  non- 


THE  SWELLING  OF  JORDAN.  1 65 

sense.  Look  at  the  Colonel  —  swag-bellied 
rascal  that  he  is.  He  has  a  wife  and  no  end  of 
a  bow-window  of  his  own.  Can  any  one  of 
us  ride  round  him  —  chalkstones  and  all  ?  I 
can't,  and  I  think  I  can  shove  a  crock  along 
a  bit. 

G.— Some  men  are  different.  I  haven't 
the  nerve.  Lord  help  me,  I  haven't  the 
nerve  !  I've  taken  up  a  hole  and  a  half  to 
get  my  knees  well  under  the  wallets.  I  can't 
help  it.  I'm  so  afraid  of  anything  happening 
to  me.  On  my  soul,  I  ought  to  be  broke  in 
front  of  the  squadron,  for  cowardice. 

M.  —  Ugly  w^ord,  that.  I  should  never  have 
the  courage  to  own  up. 

G.  —  i  meant  to  lie  about  my  reasons  when 
I  began,  but — I've  got  out  of  the  habit  of 
lying  to  you,  old  man.  Jack,  you  won't  ?  .  .  . 
But  I  know  you  won't. 

M.  —  Of  course  yot.  (^Half  aloud.)  The^ 
Pinks  are  paying  dearly  for  their  Pride. 

G.  —  Eh  !     Wha-at  ? 

M.  —  Don't  you  know  ?  We've  called  Mrs. 
Gadsby  the  Pride  of  the  Pink  Hussars  ever 
since  she  came  to  us. 


l66  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS, 

G.  —  Tisn't  her  fault.  Don't  think  that. 
It's  all  mine. 

M.  —  What  does  she  say  ? 

G.  —  I  haven't  exactly  put  It  before  her. 
She's  the  best  little  woman  In  the  world,  Jack, 
and  all  that  .  .  .  but  she  wouldn't  counsel  a 
man  to  stick  to  his  calling  if  it  came  between 
him  and  her.     At  least,  I  think  — 

M.  —  Never  mind.  Don't  tell  her  what  you 
told  me.  Go  on  the  Peerage  and  Landed- 
Gentry  tack. 

G.  —  She'd  see  through  it.  She's  five 
times  cleverer  than  I  am. 

M.  —  {Aside.')  Then  she'll  accept  the  sac- 
rifice and  think  a  little  bit  worse  of  him  for 
the  rest  of  her  days. 

G.  —  (^Absently.)  I  say,  do  you  despise 
me? 

M.  —  'Queer  way  of  putting  It.  Have  you 
ever  been  asked  that  question  ?  Think  a 
minute.     What  answer  used  you  to  give  ? 

G.  —  So  bad  as  that  f  I'm  not  entitled  to 
expect  anything  more ;  but  It's  a  bit  hard 
when  one's  best  friend  turns  round  and  — 


THE  SWELLING  OF  JORDAN.  1 6/ 

M.  —  So  /  have  found.  But  you  will  have 
consolations —  Bailiffs  and  Drains  and  Liquid 
Manure  and  the  Primrose  League,  and,  per- 
haps, if  you're  lucky,  the  Colonelcy  of  a 
Yeomanry  Cav-al-ry  Regiment  —  all  uniform 
and  no  riding,  I  believe.  How  old  are  you  ? 
,  G.  —  Thirty-three.     I  know  it's  .  .  . 

M.  — At  forty  you'll  be  a  fool  of  a  J.  P. 
landlord.  At  fifty  you'll  own  a  bath-chair,  and 
The  Brigadier,  if  he  takes  after  you,  will  be 
fluttering  the  dove-cotes  of — what's  the  par- 
ticular dunghill  you're  going  to  ?  Also,  Mrs. 
Gadsby  will  be  fat. 

G.  —  (^Limply,)  This  is  rather  more  than 
a  joke. 

M.  —  D'you  think  so  ?  Isn't  cutting  the 
Service  a  joke  ?  It  generally  takes  a  man 
fifty  years  to  arrive  at  it.  You're  quite  right, 
though.  It  is  more  than  a  joke.  You've 
managed  it  in  thirty-three. 

G.  —  Don't  make  me  feel  worse  than  I  do. 
Will  it  satisfy  you  if  I  own  that  I  am  a  shirker, 
a  skrimshanker,  and  a  coward  ? 

M.  —  It  will  not,  because  I'm  the  only  man 


1 68  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

In  the  world  who  can  talk  to  you  like  this 
without  being  knocked  down.  You  mustn't 
take  all  that  I've  said  to  heart  In  this  way.  I 
only  spoke  —  a  lot  of  It  at  least  —  out  of 
pure  selfishness  because,  because  —  Oh, 
damn  It  all,  old  man, —  I  don't  know  what  I 
shall  do  without  you.  Of  course,  you've  got 
the  money  and  the  place  and  all  that — and 
there  are  two  very  good  reasons  why  you 
should  take  care  of  yourself. 

G.  —  'Doesn't  make  It  any  the  sweeter. 
I'm  backing  out  —  I  know  I  am.  I  always 
had  a  soft  drop  In  me  somewhere  —  and  I 
daren't  risk  any  danger  to  the^n. 

M. — Why  In  the  world  should  you? 
You're  bound  to  think  of  your  family  —  bound 
to  think.  Er-hmm.  If  I  wasn't  a  younger 
son  I'd  go  too  —  be  shot  If  I  wouldn't! 

G.  —  Thank  you,  Jack.  It's  a  kind  lie,  but 
It's  the  blackest  you've  told  for  some  time. 
I  know  what  I'm  doing,  and  I'm  going  Into 
it  with  my  eyes  open.  Old  man,  I  cant  help 
it.  What  would  you  do  if  you  were  in  my 
place  ? 


THE  SWELLING  OE  JORDAN.  1 69 

M.  —  (Asz'de.)  'Couldn't  conceive  any 
woman  getting  permanently  between  me  and 
the  Regiment.  {Aloud.)  'Can't  say.  'Very 
likely  I  should  do  no  better.  I'm  sorry  for 
you  —  awf'ly  sorry  —  but ''  if  them's  your  sen- 
timents "  I  believe,  I  really  do,  that  you  are 
acting  wisely. 

G.  —  Do  you  ?  I  hope  you  do.  {^In  a  ivhis- 
per.)  Jack,  be  very  sure  of  yourself  before 
you  marry.  I'm  an  ungrateful  ruffian  to  say 
this,  but  marriage  —  even  as  good  a  marriage 
as  mine  has  been  —  hampers  a  man's  work,  it 
cripples  his  sword-arm,  and  oh.  It  plays  Hell 
with  his  notions  of  duty  !  Sometimes  —  good 
and  sweet  as  she  Is  —  sometimes  I  could  wish 
that  I  had  kept  my  freedom.  .  .  .  No,  I  don't 
mean  that  exactly. 

Mrs.  G.  —  {Coming  doivn  veranda?) 
What  are  you  wagging  your  head  over,  Pip  ? 

M.  —  {Turnifig  quickly?)  Me,  as  usual. 
The  old  sermon.  Your  husband  is  recom- 
mending me  to  get  married.  'Never  saw  such 
a  one-idead  man  ! 

Mrs.  G.  —  Well,  why  don't  you  \     I  dare 


I/O  THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS. 

say    you    would    make    some    woman    very 
happy. 

G.  —  There's  the  Law  and  die  Prophets, 
Jack.  Never  mind  the  Regiment.  Make  a 
woman  happy.      (Aside.)      O  Lord  ! 

M.  —  We'll  see.  I  must  be  off  to  make  a 
Troop  Cook  desperately  unhappy c  I  won't- 
have  the  wily  Hussar  fed  on  G.  B.  T.  shin- 
bones.  .  .  .  (I/ash'fy.)  Surely  black  ants 
can't  be  good  for  The  Brigadier.  He's  pick- 
ing 'em  off  the  chitai  and  eating  'em.  Here, 
Senor  Comandante  Don  Grubbynose,  come 
and  talk  to  me.  {^Lifts  G.  junior  in  his 
arms.)  'Want  my  watch  ?  You  won't  be 
able  to  put  It  into  your  mouth,  but  you  can 
try.  (G.  Junior  drops  watch,  breaking  dial 
and  hands ^ 

Mrs.  G.  —  Oh,  Captain  Mafflin,  I  am  so 
sorry !  Jack,  you  bad,  bad  little  villain. 
Ahhh  ! 

M.  —  It's  not  the  least  consequence,  I  as- 
sure you.  He'd  treat  the  world  in  the  same 
way  if  he  could  get  it  into  his  hands.  Every- 
thing's made  to  be  played  with  and  broken, 


THE  SWELLING  OF  JORDAN,  I /I 

Isn't  It,  young  'un  ?  {Tenderly^  "Oh, 
Diamond,  Diamond,  thou  Httle  knowest  the 
mischief  that  thou  hast  done." 

Mrs.  G.  —  Mafflin  didn't  at  all  like  his 
watch  being  broken,  though  he  was  too  polite 
to  say  so.  It  was  entirely  his  fault  for  giving 
It  to  the  child.  Dem  lltde  puds  are  werry, 
werry feeble,  aren't  dey,  my  Jack-in-the-box? 
(  7<?  G.)      What  did  he  want  to  see  you  for  ? 

G.  —  Regimental  shop  o'  sorts. 

Mrs.  G.  —  The  Regiment!  A /ways  the 
Regiment.  On  my  word,  I  sometimes  feel 
jealous  of  Mafflin. 

G.  —  (  JVeari/y.)  Poor  old  Jack  !  I  don't 
think  you  need.  Isn't  It  time  for  The 
Butcha  to  have  his  nap  ?  Bring  a  chair  out 
here,  dear.  I've  got  something  to  talk  over 
with  you. 

And  this  is  the  End   of  the  Story  of 
THE  Gadsbys. 


L'ENVOL 


What  Is  the  moral  ?     Who  rides  may  read. 

When  the  night  is  thick  and  the  tracks  are 
bHnd 
A  friend  at  a  pinch  is  a  friend  indeed  ; 

But  a  fool  to  wait  for  the  laggard  behind  : 
Down  to  Gehenna  or  up  to  the  Throne 
He  travels  the  fastest  who  travels  alone. 

White  hands  cling  to  the  tightened  rein, 
Slipping  the  spur  from  the  booted  heel, 

Tenderest  voices  cry,  "  Turn  again," 
Red  lips  tarnish  the  scabbarded  steel, 

High  hopes  faint  on  a  warm  hearth-stone  — 

He  travels  the  fastest  who  travels  alone. 

One  may  fall  but  he  falls  by  himself — 

Falls  by  himself  with  himself  to  blame ; 

One  may  attain  and  to  him  Is  the  pelf. 

Loot  of  the  city  in  Gold  or  Fame : 
172 


L  ENVOI.  173 

Plunder  of  earth  shall  be  all  his  own 
Who  travels  the  fastest  and  travels  alone. 

Wherefore    the     more     ye    be    holpen    and 
stayed  — 

Stayed  by  a  friend  in  the  hour  of  toil, 
Sing  the  heretical  song  I  have  made  — 

His  be  the  labor  and  yours  be  the  spoil. 
W^in  by  his  aid  and  the  aid  disown  — 
He  travels  the  fastest  who  travels  alone. 


UNDER    THE    DEODARS 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


THE   EDUCATION   OF  OTIS  YEERE. 


I. 

SHOWING    now   THE   GREAT   IDEA   WAS    BORN. 

In  the  pleasant  orchard-closes 
"  God  bless  all  our  gains,''  say  we  ; 

But  "  May  God  bless  all  our  losses," 
Better  suits  with  our  degree. 

The  Lost  Bower. 

This  Is  the  history  of  a  Faikire ;  but  the 
woman  who  failed  said  that  it  might  be  an 
Instructive  tale  to  put  Into  print  for  the  bene- 
fit of  the  younger  generation.  The  younger 
generation  does  not  want  instruction.  It  is 
perfectly  willing  to  instruct  If  any  one  will 
listen  to  it.  None  the  less,  here  begins  the 
story  where  every  right-minded  story  should 
begin,    that    is   to    say  at   Simla,    where   all 


l8o  UNDER    THE  DEODARS. 

things  begin  and  many  come  to  an  evil 
end. 

The  mistake  was  due  to  a  very  clever 
woman  making  a  blunder  and  not  retrieving 
it.  Men  are  licensed  to  stumble,  but  a 
clever  woman's  mistake  is  outside  the  regular 
course  of  Nature  and  Providence  ;  since  all 
good  people  know  that  a  woman  is  the  only 
infallible  thing  in  this  world,  except  Govern- 
ment Paper  of  the  '79  issue,  bearing  interest 
at  iour  and  a  half  per  cent.  Yet,  we  have  to 
remember  that  six  consecutive  days  of  re- 
hearsing the  star-part  of  The  Fallen  Angel, 
at  the  New  Gaiety  Theatre  where  the  plaster 
is  not  yet  properly  dry,  might  have  brought 
about  an  unhingement  of  spirits  which,  again, 
might  have  led  to  eccentricities. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  came  to  "The  Foundry" 
to  tiffin  with  Mrs.  Mallowe,  her  one  bosom 
friend,  for  she  was  in  no  sense  "  a  woman's 
woman."  And  it  was  a  woman's  tiffin,  the 
door  shut  to  all  the  world  ;  and  they  both 
talked  chiffons,  which  is  French  for  Mysteries. 

''  I've  enjoyed  an  interval  of  sanity,"  Mrs. 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS    YE  ERE,       l8l 

Hauksbee  announced,  after  tiffin  was  over 
and  the  two  were  comfortably  settled  in  the 
little  writing-room  that  opened  out  of  Mrs. 
Mallowe's  bedroom. 

''My  dear  girl,  what  has  he  done?"  said 
Mrs.  Mallowe  sweetly.  It  is  noticeable  that 
ladies  of  a  certain  age  call  each  other  "  dear 
girl,"  just  as  commissioners  of  twenty-eight 
years'  standing  address  their  equals  in  the 
Civil  List  as  "  my  boy." 

"  There's  no  he  in  the  case.  Who  am  I 
that  an  imaginary  man  should  be  always 
credited  to  me  ?     Am  I  an  Apache  ?  " 

'*  No,  dear,  but  somebody's  scalp  is  gener- 
ally drying  at  your  wigwam-door.  Soaking 
rather." 

This  was  an  allusion  to  the  Hawley  Boy, 
who  was  in  the  habit  of  riding  all  across 
Simla  in  the  Rains,  to  call  on  Mrs.  Hauksbee. 
That  lady  laughed. 

''  For  my  sins,  the  Aide  at  Tyrconnel  last 
night  told  me  off  to  the  Mussuck.  Hsh ! 
Don't  laugh.  One  of  my  most  devoted 
admirers.     When  duff  came  in  —  some  one 


1 82  UNDER    THE  DEODARS. 

really  ought  to  teach  them  to  make  puddings 
at  Tyrconnel  —  The  Mussuck  was  at  liberty 
to  attend  to  me." 

"  Sweet  soul !  I  know  his  appetite,"  said 
Mrs.  Mallowe.  "  Did  he,  oh  did  he,  begin 
his  wooing  ? " 

"  By  a  special  mercy  of  Providence,  no. 
He  explained  his  importance  as  a  Pillar  of 
the  Empire.     I  didn't  laugh." 

''  Lucy,  I  don't  believe  you." 

*'Ask  Captain  Sangar ;  he  was  on  the 
other  side.  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  The 
Mussuck  dilated." 

"I  think  I  can  see  him  doing  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Mallowe  pensively,  scratching  her  fox-terrier's 
ears. 

"  I  was  properly  impressed.  Most  prop- 
erly. I  yawned  openly.  '  Strict  supervision, 
and  play  them  off  one  against  the  other,' 
said  The  Mussuck,  shovelling  down  his  ice  by 
tureenfuls,  I  assure  you.  '  That,  Mrs.  H auks- 
bee,  is  the  secret  of  our  Government.'  " 

Mrs.  Mallowe  laughed  long  and  merrily. 
*'  And  what  did  you  say  ?  " 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS   YE  ERE.        1 83 

*'  Did  you  ever  know  me  at  loss  for  an 
answer  yet  ?  I  said :  '  So  I  have  observed 
in  my  dealings  with  you.'  The  Mussuck 
swelled  with  pride.  He  is  coming  to  call  on 
me  to-morrow.  The  Hawley  Boy  is  coming 
too." 

'' '  Strict  supervision  and  play  them  off  one 
against  the  other.  That,  Mrs.  Hauskbee,  is 
the  secret  of  our  Government.'  And  I  dare 
say  if  we  could  get  to  The  Mussuck's  heart, 
we  should  find  that  he  considers  himself 
a  man  of  the  world." 

"  As  he  is  of  the  other  two  things.  I  like 
The  Mussuck,  and  I  won't  have  you  call  him 
names.     He  amuses  me." 

''  He  has  reformed  you,  too,  by  what 
appears.  Explain  the  interval  of  sanity,  and 
hit  Tim  on  the  nose  with  the  paper-cutter, 
please.  That  dog  is  too  fond  of  sugar.  Do 
you  take  milk  in  yours  ?  " 

''  No,  thanks.  Polly,  I'm  wearied  of  this 
life.     It's  hollow." 

"Turn  religious,  then.  I  always  said  that 
Rome  would  be  your  fate." 


1 84  UNDER    THE  DEODARS, 

"  Only  exchanging  half  a  dozen  attaches 
In  red  for  one  in  black,  and  If  I  fasted,  the 
wrinkles  would  come  and  never,  fievei^  go. 
Has  It  ever  struck  you,  dear,  that  I'm  getting 
old?" 

''Thanks  for  your  courtesy.  I'll  return  it. 
Ye-es,  we  are  both  not  exactly  —  how  shall 
I  put  it  ?  " 

"  What  we  have  been.  '  I  feel  it  in  my 
bones,'  as  Mrs.  Crossley  says.  Polly,  I've 
wasted  my  life." 

"As  how?" 

"  Never  mind  how.  I  feel  It.  I  want  to 
be  a  Power  before  I  die." 

"  Be  a  Power  then.  You've  wits  enough 
for  anything  .  .  .  and  beauty  ? " 

Mrs.  Hauskbee  pointed  a  teaspoon  straight 
at  her  hostess.  "  Polly,  if  you  heap  compli- 
ments on  me  like  this,  I  shall  cease  to  believe 
that  you're  a  woman.  Tell  me  how  I  am  to 
be  a  Power." 

"  Inform  The  Mussuck  that  he  Is  the  most 
fascinating  and  slimmest  man  in  Asia,  and 
he'll  tell  you  anything  and  everything  you 
please." 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS   YE  ERE.        1 85 

''  Bother  The  Mussuck  !  I  mean  an  intel- 
lectual Power  —  not  a  ^^5-power.  Polly, 
I'm  going  to  start  a  salon'' 

Mrs.  Mallowe  turned  lazily  on  the  sofa 
and  rested  her  head  on  her  hand.  *'  Hear 
the  words  of  the  Preacher,  the  son  of  Baruch," 
she  said. 

''  Will  you  talk  sensibly  ? " 

*'  I  will,  dear,  for  I  see  that  you  are  going 
to  make  a  mistake." 

**  I  never  made  a  mistake  in  my  life  —  at 
least,  never  one  that  I  couldn't  explain  away 
afterwards." 

**  Going  to  make  a  mistake,"  went  on  Mrs. 
Mallowe  composedly.  ''It  is  impossible  to 
start  a  salon  in  Simla.  A  bar  would  be 
much  more  to  the  point." 

"  Perhaps,  but  why?     It  seems  so  easy." 

*'  Just  what  makes  it  so  difficult.  How 
many  clever  women  are  there  in  Simla  ?  " 

"  Myself  and  yourself,"  said  Mrs.  Hauks- 
bee,  without  a  moment's  hesitation. 

*'  Modest  woman  !  Mrs.  Feardon  would 
thank  you  for  that.  And  how  many  clever 
men?" 


1 86  UNDER    THE  DEODARS. 

"  Oh  —  er —  hundreds,"  said  Mrs.  Hauks- 
bee  vaguely. 

"What  a  fatal  blunder!  Not  one.  They 
are  all  bespoke  by  the  Government.  Take 
my  husband,  for  instance.  Jack  zoas  a  clever 
man,  though  I  say  so  who  shouldn't.  Gov- 
ernment has  eaten  him  up.  All  his  ideas 
and  powers  of  conversation  —  he  really  used 
to  be  a  good  talker,  even  to  his  wife,  in  the 
old  days  —  are  taken  from  him  by  this  —  this 
kitchen-sink  of  a  Government.  That's  the 
case  with  every  man  up  here  who  is  at  work. 
I  don't  suppose  a  Russian  convict  under  the 
knout  is  able  to  amuse  the  rest  of  his  gang ; 
and  all  our  men-folk  here  are  gilded  con- 
victs." 

"  But  there  are  scores  "  — - 

"  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say.  Scores 
of  idle  men  up  on  leave.  I  admit  it,  but 
they  are  all  of  two  objectionable  sets.  The 
Civilian  who'd  be  delightful  if  he  had  the 
military  man's  knowledge  of  the  world  and 
style,  and  the  military  man  who'd  be  adorable 
if  he  had  the  Civilian's  culture." 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS    YEERE.        1 8/ 

''  Detestable  word !  Have  Civilians  cul- 
chaw  ?     I  never  studied  the  breed  deeply." 

"  Don't  make  fun  of  Jack's  service.  Yes. 
They're  like  the  teapoys  In  the  Lakka  Bazar 
—  good  material  but  not  polished.  They 
can't  help  themselves,  poor  dears.  A  Civilian 
only  begins  to  be  tolerable  after  he  has 
knocked  about  the  world  for  fifteen  years." 

''  And  a  military  man  ?  " 

''  When  he  has  had  the  same  amount  of 
service.  The  young  of  both  species  are 
horrible.  You  would  have  scores  of  them  In 
your  salonr 

''I  would  not!''  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee 
fiercely.  *'  I  would  tell  the  bearer  to  darwaza 
ba7zd  them.  I'd  put  their  own  colonels  and 
commissioners  at  the  door  to  turn  them  away. 
I'd  give  them  to  the  Topsham  girl  to  play 
with." 

"The  Topsham  girl  would  be  grateful  for 
the  gift.  But  to  go  back  to  the  salon.  Allow- 
ing that  you  had  gathered  all  your  men  and 
women  together,  what  would  you  do  with 
them?     Make   them  talk?     They  would  all 


1 88  UNDER   THE  DEODARS, 

with  one  accord  begin  to  flirt.  Your  salon 
would  become  a  glorified  Peliti's  —  a  '  Scan- 
dal Point '  by  lamplight." 

"There's  a  certain  amount  of  wisdom  in 
that  view." 

''There's  all  the  wisdom  in  the  world  in  it. 
Surely,  twelve  Simla  seasons  ought  to  have 
taught  you  that  you  can't  focus  anything  in 
India ;  and  a  salon,  to  be  any  good  at  all, 
must  be  permanent.  In  two  seasons  your 
roomful  would  be  scattered  all  over  Asia. 
We  are  only  little  bits  of  dirt  on  the  hillsides 

—  here  one  day  and  blown  down  the  khtid 
the  next.     We  have  lost  the  art  of  talking 

—  at  least  our  men  have.  We  have  no 
cohesion  "  — 

''  George  Eliot  in  the  flesh,"  interpolated 
Mrs.  Hauksbee  wickedly. 

*'  And  collectively,  my  dear  scoffer,  we,  men 
and  women  alike,  have  no  influence.  Come 
into  the  veranda  and  look  at  the  Mall !  " 

The  two  looked  down  on  the  now  rapidly 
filling  road,  for  all  Simla  was  abroad  to  steal 
a  stroll  between  a  shower  and  a  fog. 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS    YE  ERE.       1 89 

"  How  do  you  propose  to  fix  that  river  ? 
Look !  There's  The  Mussuck  —  head  of 
goodness  knows  what.  He  Is  a  power  in 
the  land,  though  he  does  eat  Hke  a  coster- 
monger.  There's  Colonel  Blone,  and  Gen- 
eral Grucher,  and  Sir  Dugald  Delane,  and 
Sir  Henry  Haughton,and  Mr.  Jellalatty.  All 
Heads  of  Departments,  and  all  powerful." 

''  And  all  my  fervent  admirers/'  said  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  piously.  ''  Sir  Henry  Haughton 
raves  about  me.     But  go  on." 

''  One  by  one,  these  men  are  worth  some- 
thing. Collectively,  they're  just  a  mob  of 
Anglo-Indians.  Who  cares  for  what  Anglo- 
Indians  say  ?  Your  salon  won't  weld  the 
Departments  together  and  make  you  mistress 
of  India,  dear.  And  these  creatures  won't 
talk  administrative  '  shop  '  in  a  crowd  —  your 
salon  —  because  they  are  so  afraid  of  the 
men  in  the  lower  ranks  overhearing  it.  They 
have  forgotten  what  of  Literature  and  Art 
they  ever  knew  and  the  women  "  — 

*'  Can't  talk  about  anything  except  the 
last    Gymkhana,    or   the    sins   of    their   last 


IQO  UNDER    THE   DEODARS. 

dhai.  I  was  calling  on  Mrs.  Derwills  this 
morning." 

"You  admit  that?  They  can  talk  to  the 
subalterns  though,  and  the  subalterns  can 
talk  to  them.  Your  salon  would  suit  their 
views  admirably,  if  you  respected  the  reli- 
gious prejudices  of  the  country  and  provided 
plenty  o{  kala  juggahs!' 

"Plenty  of  kala  juggahs.  Oh  my  poor 
little  idea  !  Kala  juggahs  m  a  salo7t!  But 
who  made  you  so  awfully  clever  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  I've  tried  myself;  or  perhaps  I 
know  a  woman  who  has.  I  have  preached 
and  expounded  the  whole  matter  and  the 
conclusion  thereof"  — 

"  You  needn't  go  on.  '  Is  Vanity.'  Polly, 
I  thank  you.  These  vermin  " —  Mrs.  Hauks- 
bee  waved  her  hand  from  the  veranda  to 
two  men  in  the  crowd  below  who  had  raised 
their  hats  to  her — "these  vermin  shall  not 
rejoice  In  a  new  Scandal  Point  or  an  extra 
Pellti's.  I  will  abandon  the  notion  oi  2.  salon, 
It</z^seem  so  tempting,  though.  But  what 
shall  I  do  ?     I  must  do  something." 


THE   EDUCATION  OF  OTIS    YE  ERE.        191 

**  Why  ?     Are  not  Abana  and  Pharphar  "  — 

**  Jack  has  made  you  nearly  as  bad  as  him- 
self! I  want  to,  of  course.  I'm  tired  of 
everything  and  everybody,  from  a  moonlight 
picnic  at  Seepee  to  the  blandishments  of  The 
Mussuck." 

"Yes  —  that  comes,  too,  sooner  or  later. 
Have  you  nerve  enough  to  make  your  bow 
yet  ? " 

Mrs.  Hauksbee's  mouth  shut  grimly.  Then 
she  laughed.  "  I  think  I  see  myself  doing 
it.  Big  pink  placards  on  the  Mall :  '  Mrs. 
Hauskbee !  Positively  her  last  appearance 
on  any  stage  !  This  is  to  give  notice  ! '  No 
more  dances  ;  no  more  rides  ;  no  more  lun- 
cheons ;  no  more  theatricals  with  supper  to 
follow  ;  no  more  sparring  with  one's  dearest, 
dearest  friend  ;  no  more  fencing  with  an  in- 
convenient man  who  hasn't  wit  enough  to 
clothe  what  he's  pleased  to  call  his  senti- 
ments in  passable  speech  ;  no  more  parading 
of  The  Mussuck  while  Mrs.  Tarkass  calls  all 
round  Simla,  spreading  horrible  stories  about 
me  !     No  more  of  anything  that  is  thoroughly 


192  UNDER   THE  DEODARS. 

wearying,  abominable  and  detestable,  but,  all 
the  same,  makes  life  worth  the  having.  Yes  ! 
I  see  it  all  !  Don't  interrupt,  Polly,  I'm 
inspired.  A  mauve  and  white  striped  '  cloud  ' 
round  my  venerable  shoulders,  a  seat  in  the 
fifth  row  of  the  Gaiety,  and  both  horses  sold. 
Delightful  vision  !  A  comfortable  arm-chair, 
situated  in  three  different  draughts,  at  every 
ballroom ;  and  nice,  large,  sensible  shoes  for 
all  the  couples  to  stumble  over  as  they  go 
into  the  veranda  !  Then  at  supper.  Can't 
you  imagine  the  scene  ?  The  greedy  mob 
gone  away.  Reluctant  subaltern,  pink  all  over 
like  a  newly  powdered  baby,  —  they  really 
ought  to  tan  subalterns  before  they  are 
exported,  —  Polly  —  sent  back  by  the  hostess 
to  do  his  duty.  Slouches  up  to  me  across 
the  room,  tugging  at  a  glove  two  sizes  too 
large  for  him  —  I  hate  a  man  who  wears 
gloves  like  overcoats  —  and  trying  to  look 
as  if  he'd  thought  of  it  from  the  first. 
*  May  I  ah-have  the  pleasure  'f  takin'  you  'nt' 
supper  ? '  Then  I  get  up  with  a  hungry 
smile.     Just  like  this." 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS   YE  ERE,       1 93 

"  Lucy,  how  can  you  be  so  absurd  ? " 

*'  And  sweep  out  on  his  arm.  So  !  After 
supper  I  shall  go  away  early,  you  know, 
because  I  shall  be  afraid  of  catching  cold. 
No  one  will  look  for  my  'rickshaw.  Mine, 
so  please  you!  I  shall  stand,  always  with 
that  mauve  and  white  '  cloud '  over  my  head, 
while  the  wet  soaks  mto  my  dear,  old,  ven- 
erable feet  and  Tom  swears  and  shouts  for 
the  mems a/lib's  gharri.  Then  home  to  bed 
at  half-past  eleven  !  Truly  excellent  life  — 
helped  out  by  the  visits  of  the  Padri,  just 
fresh  from  burying  somebody  down  below 
there."  She  pointed  through  the  pines,  toward 
the  Cemetery,  and  continued  with  vigorous 
dramatic  gesture,  — 

**  Listen  !  I  see  it  all  —  down,  down  even 
to  the  stays  !  Such  stays  !  Six-eight  a  pair, 
Polly,  with  red  flannel  —  or  list  is  it? — that 
they  put  into  the  tops  of  those  fearful  things. 
I  can  draw  you  a  picture  of  them." 

**  Lucy,  for  Heaven's  sake,  don't  go  waving 
your  arms  about  In  that  idiotic  manner ! 
Recollect,  every  one  can  see  you  from  the 
Mall." 


194  UNDER   THE  DEODARS. 

*'  Let  them  see !  They'll  think  I  am  re- 
hearsing for  The  Fallen  Angel.  Look ! 
There's  The  Mussuck.  How  badly  he  rides. 
There !  " 

She  blew  a  kiss  to  the  venerable  Indian 
administrator  with  infinite  grace. 

"  Now,"  she  continued,  "  he'll  be  chaffed 
about  that  at  the  Club  in  the  delicate  manner 
those  brutes  of  men  affect,  and  the  Hawley 
Boy  will  tell  me  all  about  it  —  softening  the 
details  for  fear  of  shocking  me.  That  boy  is 
too  good  to  live,  Polly.  I've  serious  thoughts 
of  recommending  him  to  throw  up  his  Com- 
mission and  go  into  the  Church.  In  his 
present  frame  of  mind  he  would  obey  me. 
Happy,  happy  child  !  " 

*'  Never  again,"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  with  an 
affectation  of  indignation,  "shall  you  tiffin 
here !  '  Lucindy,  your  behavior  is  scan- 
d'lus.'  " 

"  All  your  fault,"  retorted  Mrs.  Hauksbee, 
**  for  suggesting  such  a  thing  as  my  abdica- 
tion. No  !  Jamais-\^^M2AX^  !  I  will  act,  dance, 
ride,  frivol,  talk  scandal,  dine  out,  and  appro- 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS   YE  ERE.        1 95 

prlate  the  legitimate  captives  of  any  woman 
I  choose,  until  I  d-r-r-rop,  or  a  better  woman 
than  I  puts  me  to  shame  before  all  Simla 
.  .  .  and  it's  dust  and  ashes  in  my  mouth 
while  I'm  doing-  it !  " 

She  dashed  into  the  drawing-room.  Mrs. 
Mallowe  followed  and  put  an  arm  round  her 
waist. 

''  I'm  not  f'  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  defiantly, 
rummaging  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress  for  her 
handkerchief.  ''  I've  been  dining  out  for  the 
last  ten  nights,  and  rehearsing  in  the  after- 
noon. You'd  be  tired  yourself.  It's  only 
because  I'm  tired." 

Mrs.  Mallowe  did  not  at  once  overwhelm 
Mrs.  Hauksbee  with  spoken  pity  or  ask  her 
to  lie  down.  She  knew  her  friend  too  well. 
Handing  her  another  cup  of  tea,  she  went  on 
with  the  conversation. 

"■  I've  been  through  that  too,  dear,"  she 
said. 

*'  I  remember,"  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  a 
gleam  of  fun  on  her  face.  *'  In  '84,  wasn't 
it  ?  You  went  out  a  great  deal  less  next 
season." 


196  UNDER   THE  DEODARS. 

Mrs.  Mallowe  smiled  in  a  superior  and 
Sphinx-like  fashion. 

"  I  became  an  Influence,"  said  she. 

**  Good  gracious,  child,  you  didn't  join 
the  Theosophists  and  kiss  Buddha's  big  toe, 
did  you  ?  I  tried  to  get  into  their  set  once, 
but  they  cast  me  out  for  a  sceptic  —  without 
a  chance  of  improving  my  poor  little  mind, 
too." 

'*  No,  I  didn't  Theosophilander.  Jack 
says  "  — 

"Never  mind  Jack.  What  a  husband  says 
is  not  of  the  least  importance.  What  did 
you  do  ?  " 

*'  I  made  a  lasting  impression." 

''  So  have  I  —  for  four  months.  But  that 
didn't  console  me  in  the  least.  I  hated  the 
man.  Will  you  stop  smiling  in  that  inscru- 
table way  and  tell  me  what  you  mean  ?  " 

Mrs.  Mallowe  told. 

"  And  —  you  —  mean  —  to  —  say  that  it  is 
absolutely  Platonic  on  both  sides?  " 

''  Absolutely,  or  I  should  never  have  taken 
It  up. 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS    YE  ERE.       1 9/ 

'*  And  his  last  promotion  was  due  to  you  ?  " 

Mrs.  Mallowe  nodded. 

"And  you  warned  him  against  the  Top- 
sham  Girl  ?  " 

Another  nod. 

''  And  told  him  of  Sir  Dugald  Delane's 
private  Memo,  about  him  ?  " 

A  third  nod. 

-  Why  P  " 

''What  a  question  to  ask  a  woman! 
Because  it  amused  me  at  first.  I  am  proud 
of  my  property  now.  If  I  live,  he  shall 
continue  to  be  successful.  Yes,  I  will  put 
him  upon  the  straight  road  to  Knighthood, 
and  everything  else  that  a  man  values.  The 
rest  depends  upon  himself." 

''  Polly,  you  are  a  most  extraordinary 
woman." 

"  Not  in  the  least.  I'm  concentrated,  that's 
all.  You  diffuse  yourself,  dear  ;  and  though 
all  Simla  knows  your  skill  in  managing  a 
Team  "  — 

'*  Can't  you  choose  a  prettier  word?'* 

**  Team,  of  half  a  dozen,  from  The  Mus- 


198  UNDER   THE  DEODARS. 

suck  to  the  Hawley  Boy,  you  gain  nothing  by 
it.     Not  even  amusement." 

''  And  you  ?  " 

*'  Try  my  recipe.  Take  a  man,  not  a  boy, 
mind,  but  an  almost  mature,  unattached  man, 
and  be  his  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend. 
You'll  find  it  the  most  interesting  occupation 
that  you  ever  embarked  on.  It  can  be  done 
—  you  needn't  look  like  that  —  because 
I've  done  it." 

''  There's  an  element  of  danger  about  it 
that  makes  the  notion  attractive.  I'll  get 
such  a  man  and  say  to  him,  '  Now  there 
must  be  no  flirtation.  Do  exactly  what  I 
tell  you,  profit  by  my  instruction  and  coun- 
sels, and  all  will  yet  be  well,'  as  Toole  says. 
Is  that  the  idea?" 

"  More  or  less,"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  with 
an  unfathomable  smile.  ''  But  be  sure  he 
understands  that  there  must  be  no  flirtation." 


11. 


SHOWING  WHAT  WAS  BORN  OF  THE  GREAT  IDEA. 

"  DRiBBLE-dribble  —  trickle-trickle  — 
What  a  lot  of  raw  dust ! 
My  dollie's  had  an  accident 

And  out  came  all  the  sawdust !  " 

Nursery  Rhyme. 

So  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  in  ''The  Foundry" 
which  overlooks  Simla  Mall,  sat  at  the  feet  of 
Mrs.  Mallowe  and  gathered  wisdom.  The 
end  of  the  Conference  was  the  Great  Idea 
upon  which  Mrs.  Hauksbee  so  plumed 
herself. 

*'  I  warn  you,"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  begin- 
ning to  repent  of  her  suggestion,  *'  that  the 
matter  is  not  half  so  easy  as  it  looks.  Any 
woman  — even  the  Topsham  Girl  —  can  catch 
a  man,  but  very,  very  few  know  how  to 
manage  him  when  captured." 

''  My  child,"  was  the  answer,  "  I've  been 
a  female  St.  Simon    Stylites   looking  down 


200  UNDER    THE  DEODARS. 

upon  men  for  these  —  these  years  past.  Ask 
The  Mussuck  whether  I  can  manage  them." 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  departed  humming,  ''  Fll 
go  to  him  and  say  to  hhn  in  manfier  most 
ironical!'  Mrs.  Mallowe  laughed  to  herself. 
Then  she  grew  suddenly  sober.  ''  I  wonder 
whether  IVe  done  well  in  advising  that 
amusement  ?  Lucy's  a  clever  woman,  but  a 
thought  too  mischievous  where  a  man  is 
concerned." 

A  week  later,  the  two  met  at  a  Monday 
Pop.     ''  Well  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Mallowe. 

''  I've  caught  him  !  "  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee. 
Her  eyes  were  dancing  with  merriment. 

**  Who  is  it,  you  mad  woman  ?  I'm  sorry 
I  ever  spoke  to  you  about  it." 

"  Look  between  the  pillars.  In  the  third 
row ;  fourth  from  the  end.  You  can  see  his 
face  now.     Look  !  " 

''  Otis  Yeere !  Of  all  the  improbable 
people  !     I  don't  believe  you." 

"  Hsh  !  Wait  till  Mrs.  Tarkass  begins 
murdering  Milton  Wellings  ;  and  I'll  tell  you 
all  about  it.     S-s-ss!     There  we  are.     That 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS    YE  ERE,       201 

woman's  voice  always  reminds  me  of  an 
Underground  train  coming  into  Earl's  Court 
with  the  brakes  down.  Now  listen.  It  is 
really  Otis  Yeere." 

"  So  I  see,  but  it  doesn't  follow  that  he  is 
your  property." 

''  He  is!  By  right  of  trove,  as  the  bar- 
risters say.  I  found  him,  lonely  and  unbe- 
friended,  the  very  next  night  after  our  talk, 
at  the  Dugald  Delane's  bur^^a-khana.  I 
liked  his  eyes,  and  I  talked  to  him.  Next 
day  he  called.  Next  day  we  went  for  a  ride 
together,  and  to-day  he's  tied  to  my  'rick- 
5/2^z£^-wheels  hand  and  foot.  You'll  see  when 
the  concert's  over.  He  doesn't  know  I'm 
here  yet." 

''  Thank  goodness  you  haven't  chosen  a 
boy.  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  him, 
assuming  that  you've  got  him  ?  " 

"Assuming,  indeed!  Does  a  woman  — 
do  / —  ever  make  a  mistake  in  that  sort  of 
thing  ?  First "  —  Mrs.  Hauksbee  ticked  off 
the  items  ostentatiously  on  her  daintily 
gloved    fingers  —  ''First,    my   dear,    I    shall 


202  UNDER    THE  DEODARS. 

dress  him  properly.  At  present  his  raiment 
is  a  disgrace,  and  he  wears  a  dress-shirt  Hke 
a  crumpled  sheet  of  the  Pioneer.  Secondly, 
after  I  have  made  him  presentable,  I  shall 
form  his  manners  —  his  morals  are  above 
reproach." 

"  You  seem  to  have  discovered  a  great 
deal  about  him  considering  the  shortness  of 
your  acquaintance." 

'' Surely  ji^^?/ ought  to  know  that  the  first 
proof  a  man  gives  of  his  interest  in  a  woman 
is  by  talking  to  her  about  his  own  sweet  self. 
If  the  woman  listens  without  yawning,  he 
begins  to  like  her.  If  she  flatters  the 
animal's  vanity,  he  ends  by  adoring  her." 

''  In  some  cases." 

"  Never  mind  the  exceptions.  I  know 
which  one  you  are  thinking  of.  Thirdly,  and 
lastly,  after  he  is  polished  and  made  pretty,  I 
shall,  as  you  said,  be  his  guide,  philosopher, 
and  friend,  and  he  shall  become  a  success  — 
as  great  a  success  as  your  friend.  I  always 
wondered  how  that  man  got  on.  Did  The 
Mussuck  come  to  you  with  the  Civil  List  and, 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS    YE  ERE.       203 

dropping  on  one  knee  —  no,  two  knees,  a  la 
Gibbon  —  hand  it  to  you  and  say,  '  Adorable 
angel,  choose  your  friend's  appointment  ? '  '' 

''  Lucy,  your  long  experiences  of  the 
Military  Department  have  demoralized  you. 
One  doesn't  do  that  sort  of  thing  on  the 
Civil  Side." 

"  No  disrespect  meant  to  '  Jack's  Service,' 
my  dear.  I  only  asked  for  information. 
Give  me  three  months,  and  see  what  changes 
I  shall  work  in  my  prey." 

*'  Go  your  own  way  since  you  must.  But 
I'm  sorry  that  I  was  weak  enough  to  suggest 
the  amusement." 

** '  I  am  all  discretion,  and  may  be  trusted 
to  an  in-fin-ite  extent,' "  quoted  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  from  The  Fallen  Angel  i  and  the 
conversation  ceased  with  Mrs.  Tarkass's  last, 
long-drawn  war-whoop. 

Her  bitterest  enemies  —  and  she  had  many 
—  could  hardly  accuse  Mrs.  Hauksbee  of 
wasting  her  time.  Otis  Yeere  was  one  of 
those  wandering  "dumb"  characters,  fore- 
doomed through  life  to  be  "  nobody's  prop- 


204  UNDER   THE  DEODARS. 

erty."  Ten  years  In  Her  Majesty's  Bengal 
Civil  Service,  spent,  for  the  most  part,  in 
undesirable  Districts,  had  dowered  him  with 
little  to  be  proud  of,  and  nothing  to  give 
confidence.  Old  enough  to  have  lost  the 
''  first  fine  careless  rapture"  that  showers  on 
the  immature  'Stunt  imaginary  Commissioner- 
ships  and  Stars,  and  sends  him  into  the  col- 
lar with  coltish  earnestness  and  abandon  ; 
too  young  to  be  yet  able  to  look  back  upon 
the  progress  he  had  made,  and  thank 
Providence  that  under  the  conditions  of 
to-day  he  had  come  even  so  far,  he  stood 
upon  the  "dead-centre"  of  his  career.  And 
when  a  man  stands  still,  he  feels  the  slightest 
impulse  from  without.  Fortune  had  ruled 
that  Otis  Yeere  should  be,  for  the  first  part 
of  his  service,  one  of  the  rank  and  file  who 
are  ground  up  in  the  wheels  of  the  Adminis- 
tration ;  losing  heart  and  soul,  and  mind  and 
strength,  in  the  process.  Until  steam 
replaces  manual  power  in  the  working  of  the 
Empire,  there  must  always  be  this  percentage 
—  must  always  be  the  men  who  are  used  up, 


THE   EDUCATION  OF  OTIS    YE  ERE.       20$ 

expended,  in  the  mere  mechanical  routine. 
For  these  promotion  is  far  off  and  the  mill- 
grind  of  every  day  very  near  and  instant. 
The  Secretariats  know  them  only  by  name  ; 
they  are  not  the  picked  men  of  the  Districts 
with  the  Divisions  and.  Collectorates  awaiting 
them.  They  are  simply-the  rank  and  file  — 
the  food  for  fever  —  sharing  with  the  ryot  and 
the  plough-bullock  the  honor  of  being  the 
plinth  on  which  the  State  rests.  The  older 
ones  have  lost  their  aspirations  ;  the  younger 
are  putting  theirs  aside  with  a  sigh.  Both 
learn  to  endure  patiently  until  the  end  of  the 
day.  Twelve  years  in  the  rank  and  file,  men 
say,  will  sap  the  hearts  of  the  bravest  and 
dull  the  wits  of  the  most  keen. 

Out  of  this  life  Otis  Yeere  had  fled  for  a 
few  months ;  drifting,  for  the  sake  of  a  little 
masculine  society,  into  Simla. '  When  his 
leave  was  over  he  would  return  to  his 
swampy,  sour-green,  undermanned  district, 
the  native  Assistant,  the  native  Doctor,  the 
native  Magistrate,  the  steaming,  sweltering 
Station,  the   ill-kempt  City,  and  the  undis- 


206  UNDER   THE  DEODARS. 

guised  insolence  of  the  Municipality  that 
babbled  away  the  lives  of  men.  Life  was 
cheap,  however.  The  soil  spawned  humanity, 
as  it  bred  frogs  in  the  Rains,  and  the  gap  of 
the  sickness  of  one  season  was  filled  to  over- 
flowing by  the  fecundity  of  the  next.  Otis 
was  unfeignedly  thankful  to  lay  down  his 
work  for  a  little  while  and  escape  from  the 
seething,  whining,  weakly  hive,  impotent  to 
help  itself,  but  strong  in  its  power  to  cripple, 
thwart,  and  annoy  the  weary-eyed  man  who, 
by  oiiiiclal  irony,  was  said  to  be  ''  in  charge  " 
of  it. 

"  I  knew  there  were  women-dowdies  in 
Bengal.  They  come  up  here  sometimes. 
But  I  didn't  know  that  there  were  men- 
dowds,  too." 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  it  occurred  to  Otis 
Yeere  that  his  clothes  were  rather  ancestral 
in  appearance.  It  will  be  seen  from  the 
above  that  his  friendship  with  Mrs.  Hauksbee 
had  made  great  strides. 

As  that  lady  truthfully  says,  a  man  is  never 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS    YE  ERE.       20/ 

SO  happy  as  when  he  Is  talking  about  himself. 
From  Otis  Yeere's  lips  Mrs.  Hauksbee, 
before  long,  learned  everything  that  she 
wished  to  know  about  the  subject  of  her 
experiment :  learned  what  manner  of  life  he 
had  led  in  what  she  vaguely  called  ''  those 
awful  cholera  districts  ;  "  learned,  too,  but 
this  knowledge  came  later,  what  manner  of 
life  he  had  purposed  to  lead  and  what  dreams 
he  had  dreamed  in  the  year  of  grace  '^^, 
before  the  reality  had  knocked  the  heart  out 
of  him.  Very  pleasant  are  the  shady  bridle- 
paths round  Prospect  Hill  for  the  telling  of 
confidences. 

''  Not  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  to  Mrs. 
Mallowe.  ''  Not  yet.  1  must  wait  until  the 
man  is  properly  dressed,  at  least.  Great 
Heavens,  is  it  possible  that  he  doesn't  know 
what  an  honor  it  is  to  be  taken  up  by  Me  I " 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  did  not  reckon  false 
modesty  as  one  of  her  failings. 

''  Always  with  Mrs.  Hauksbee  !  "  murmured 
Mrs.  Mallowe,  with  her  sweetest  smile,  to 
Otis.     ''  Oh  you  men,  you  men  !     Here  are 


208  UNDER   THE  DEODARS, 

our  Punjabis  growling  because  you've 
monopolized  the  nicest  woman  in  Simla. 
They'll  tear  you  to  pieces  on  the  Mall,  some 
day,  Mr.  Yeere." 

Mrs.  Mallowe  rattled  down-hill,  having 
satisfied  herself,  by  a  glance  through  the 
fringe  of  her  sunshade,  of  the  effect  of  her 
words. 

The  shot  went  home.  Of  a  surety  Otis 
Yeere  was  somebody  in  this  bewildering 
whirl  of  Simla.  'Had  monopolized  the 
nicest  woman  in  it  and  the  Punjabis  were 
growling.  The  notion  justified  a  mild  glow 
of  vanity.  He  had  never  regarded  his 
acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Hauksbee  as  a  matter 
for  general  interest. 

The  knowledge  of  envy  was  a  pleasant 
feeling  to  the  man  of  no  account.  It  was 
intensified  later  in  the  day  when  a  luncher  at 
the  Club  said  spitefully,  **  Well,  for  a 
debilitated  Ditcher,  Yeere,  you  are  going  it. 
Hasn't  any  kind  friend  told  you  that  she's 
the  most  dangerous  woman  in  Simla  ?  " 

Yeere  chuckled  and   passed  out.     When, 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS   YE  ERE.       209 

oh  when,  would  his  new  clothes  be  ready? 
He  descended  Into  the  Mall  to  inquire  ;  and 
Mrs.  Hauksbee,  coming  over  the  Church 
Ridge  In  her  'rickshaw,  looked  down  upon 
him  approvingly.  *'  He's  learning  to  carry 
himself  as  If  he  were  a  man,  Instead  of  a 
piece  of  furniture,  —  and  "  she  screwed  up 
her  eyes  to  see  the  better  through  the  sun- 
light—  "he  is  a  man  when  he  holds  himself 
like  that.  Oh  blessed  Conceit,  what  should 
we  be  without  you  ?  " 

With  the  new  clothes  came  a  new  stock  of 
self-confidence.  Otis  Yeere  discovered  that 
he  could  enter  a  room  without  breaking  Into 
a  gentle  perspiration,  and  could  cross  one, 
even  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  as  though 
rooms  were  meant  to  be  crossed.  He  was 
for  the  first  time  In  nine  years  proud  of  him- 
self, and  contented  with  his  life,  satisfied  with 
his  new  clothes,  and  rejoicing  in  the  coveted 
friendship  of  Mrs.  Hauksbee. 

"  Conceit  is  what  the  poor  fellow  wants," 
she  said  In  confidence  to  Mrs.  Mallowe.  ''  I 
believe  they  must  use  Civilians  to  plough  the 


2IO  UNDER   THE  DEODARS. 

fields  with  In  Lower  Bengal.  You  see  I  have 
to  begin  from  the  very  beginning  —  haven't 
I  ?  But  you'll  admit,  won't  you,  dear,  that 
he  is  Immensely  improved  since  I  took  him 
In  hand.  Only  give  me  a  little  more  time 
and  he  won't  know  himself." 

Indeed,  Yeere  was  rapidly  beginning  to 
forget  what  he  had  been.  One  of  his  own 
rank  and  file  put  the  matter  in  a  nutshell 
when  he  asked  Yeere,  in  reference  to  nothing, 
''And  who  has  been  making  jk^^  a  Member 
of  Council,  lately  ?  You  carry  the  side  of 
half  a  dozen  of  em." 

"I  —  I'm  awf ly  sorry.  I  didn't  mean  it, 
you  know,"  said  Yeere  apologetically. 

"  There'll  be  no  holding  you,"  continued 
the  old  stager  grimly.  "  Climb  down,  Otis 
—  climb  down,  and  get  all  that  beastly 
affectation  knocked  out  of  you  with  fever  ! 
Three  thousand  a  month  wouldn't  support  It." 

Yeere  repeated  the  incident  to  Mrs. 
Hauksbee.  He  had  insensibly  come  to  look 
upon  her  as  his  Frau  Confessorin. 

**  And  you  apologized  !  "  she  said.     "  Oh 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS    YE  ERE.       211 

shame  1  I  hate  a  man  who  apologizes.  Never 
apologize  for  what  your  friend  called  'side.' 
Never  !  It's  a  man's  business  to  be  insolent 
and  overbearing  until  he  meets  with  a 
stronger.  Now,  you  bad  boy,  listen  to 
me." 

Simply  and  straightforwardly,  as  the  'rick- 
shaw loitered  round  Jakko,  Mrs.  Hauksbee 
preached  to  Otis  Yeere  the  Great  Gospel  of 
Conceit,  illustrating  it  with  living  subjects 
encountered  during  their  Sunday  afternoon 
stroll. 

"  Good  gracious  !  "  she  concliided  with  the 
personal  argument,  ''  you'll  apologize  next 
for  being  my  attache  .^  " 

"  Never  !  "  said  Otis  Yeere.  ''  That's 
another  thing  altogether.  I  shall  always 
be"  — 

''What's  coming?"  thought  Mrs.  Hauks- 
bee. 

''  Proud  of  that,"  said  Otis. 

'*  Safe  for  the  present,"  she  said  to  herself. 

*'  But  I'm  afraid  I  have  grown  conceited. 
Like  Jeshurun,  you  know.     When  he  waxed 


212  UNDER    THE  DEODARS. 

fat,  then  he  kicked.  It's  the  having  no  worry 
on  one's  mind  and  the  Hill  air,  I  suppose." 

*'  Hill  air,  indeed  !  "  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  to 
herself.  ''  He'd  have  been  hiding  in  the 
Club  till  the  last  day  of  his  leave,  if  I  hadn't 
discovered  him."     Then  aloud  :  — 

"  Why  shouldn't  you  be  ?  You  have  every 
right  to." 

"I!     Why?" 

*'  Oh,  hundreds  of  things.  I'm  not  going 
to  waste  this  lovely  afternoon  by  explaining ; 
but  I  know  you  have.  What  was  that  heap 
of  manuscript  you  showed  me  about  the 
grammar  of  the  aboriginal  —  what's  their 
names  ?  " 

''  Gullals.  A  piece  of  nonsense.  I've 
far  too  much  work  to  do  to  bother  over 
Gtillals  now.  You  should  see  my  District. 
Come  down  with  your  husband  some  day  and 
I'll  show  you  round.  Such  a  lovely  place  in 
the  Rains !  A  sheet  of  water  with  the  rail- 
way-embankment and  the  snakes  sticking 
out,  and,  in  the  summer,  green  flies  and 
green  squash.     The  people  would  die  of  fear 


y 


■      THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS   YE  ERE,       213 

If  you  shook  a  dogwhip  at  em.  But  they 
know  you're  forbidden  to  do  that,  so  they 
conspire  to  make  your  Hfe  a  burden  to  you. 
My  District's  worked  by  some  man  at  Dar- 
jlllng,  on  the  strength  of  a  pleader's  false 
reports.     Oh,  It's  a  heavenly  place  !  " 

Otis  Yeere  laughed  bitterly. 

"  There's  not  the  least  necessity  that  you 
should  stay  in  it.     Why  do  you  ?  " 

"  Because  I  must.  How'm  I  to  get  out  of 
It?" 

*'  How  !  In  a  hundred  and  fifty  ways.  If 
there  weren't  so  many  people  on  the  road,  I'd 
like  to  box  your  ears.  Ask,  my  dear  Sir, 
ask  !  Look  !  There  Is  young  Hexarly  with 
six  years'  service  and  half  your  talents.  He 
asked  for  what  he  wanted,  and  he  eot  it.  See, 
down  by  the  Convent !  There's  McArthur- 
son  who  has  come  to  his  present  position  by 
asking  —  sheer,  downright  asking  —  after  he 
had  pushed  himself  out  of  the  rank  and  file. 
One  man  Is  as  good  as  another  in  your  ser- 
vice —  believe  me.  I've  seen  Simla  for  more 
seasons  than  I  care  to  think  about.     Do  you 


214  UNDER   THE  DEODARS, 

suppose  men  are  chosen  for  appointments 
because  of  their  special  fitness  beforehand? 
You  have  all  passed  a  high  test  —  what  do  you 
call  it  ? —  in  the  beginning,  and,  excepting  the 
three  or  four  who  have  gone  altogether  to 
the  bad,  you  can  all  work.  Asking  does  the 
rest.  Call  it  cheek,  call  it  insolence,  call  it 
anything  you  like,  but  ask  !  Men  argue  — 
yes,  I  know  what  men  say  —  that  a  man,  by 
the  mere  audacity  of  his  request,  must  have 
some  good  in  him.  A  weak  man  doesn't  say  : 
*  Give  me  this  and  that.'  He  whines  :  '  Why 
haven't  I  been  given  this  and  that?  '  If  you 
were  in  the  Army,  I  should  say  learn  to  spin 
plates  or  play  a  tambourine  with  your  toes. 
As  it  is  —  ask  !  You  belong  to  a  Service 
that  ought  to  be  able  to  command  the  Chan- 
nel fleet,  or  set  a  leg  at  twenty  minutes' 
notice,  and  yet  you  hesitate  over  asking  to 
escape  from  a  squashy  green  district  where 
you  admit  you  are  not  master.  Drop  the 
Bengal  Government  altogether.  Even  Dar- 
jiling  is  a  little  out-of-the-way  hole.  I  was 
there  once,  and  the  rents  were  extortionate. 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS   YE  ERE.       21 S 

Assert  yourself.  Get  the  Government  of 
India  to  take  you  over.  Try  to  get  on  the 
Frontier,  where  every  man  has  a  grand  chance 
if  he  can  trust  himself.  Go  somewhere ! 
Z>o  something!  You  have  twice  the  wits 
and  three  times  the  presence  of  the  men  up 
here,  and,  and  "  —  Mrs.  Hauksbee  paused  for 
breath;  then  continued  —  ''and  in  any  wsy 
you  look  at  it,  you  ought  to.  You  who  could 
go  so  far!  " 

*'  I  dor^'t  know,"  said  Yeere,  rather  taken 
aback  by  the  unexpected  eloquence.  "  I 
haven't  such  a  good  opinion  of  myself." 

It  was  not  strictly  Platonic,  but  it  was 
Policy.  Mrs.  Hauksbee  laid  her  hand  lightly 
upon  the  ungloved  paw  that  rested  on  the 
turned-backed  'rickshatv  hood,  and,  looking 
the  man  full  in  the  face,  said  tenderly,  almost 
too  tenderly,  "  /  believe  in  you  if  you  mis- 
trust yourself.     Is  that  enough,  my  friend  ?  " 

"  It  is  enough,"  answered  Otis  very 
solemnly. 

He  was  silent  for  a  long  time,  redreaming 
the  dreams  that  he  had  dreamed  eight  years 


2l6  UNDER    THE  DEODARS. 

ago,  but  through  them  all  ran,  as  sheet-light- 
ning through  golden  cloud,  the  light  of  Mrs. 
Hauksbee's  violet  eyes. 

Curious  and  impenetrable  are  the  mazes  of 
Simla  life  —  the  only  existence  in  this  deso- 
late land  worth  the  living.  Gradually  it  went 
abroad  among  men  and  women,  in  the  pauses 
between  dance,  play,  and  Gymkhana,  that 
Otis  Yeere,  the  man  with  the  newly  lit  light 
of  self-confidence  .  in  his  eyes,  had  "  done 
something  decent  "  in  the  wilds  \vhence  he 
came.  He  had  brought  an  erring  Munici- 
pality to  reason,  appropriated  the  funds  on 
his  own  responsibility,  and  saved  the  lives  of 
hundreds.  He  knew  more  about  the  Gullals 
than  any  living  man.  'Had  avast  knowledge 
of  the  aboriginal  tribes  ;  was,  in  spite  of  his 
juniority,  the  greatest  authority  on  the  abo- 
riginal Gullals.  No  one  quite  knew  who  or 
what  the  Gullals  were  till  The  Mussuck,  who 
had  been  calling  on  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  and 
prided  himself  upon  picking  people's  brains, 
explained  they  were  a  tribe  of  ferocious  hill- 
men,  somewhere  near  Sikkim,  whose  friend- 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS    YE  ERE.       21/ 

ship  even  the  Great  Indian  Empire  would 
find  it  worth  her  while  to  secure.  Now  we 
know  that  Otis  Yeere  had  showed  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  his  M.S.  notes  of  six  years'  stand- 
ing on  these  same  Gullah.  He  had  told 
her,  too,  how,  sick  and  shaken  with  the 
fever  their  negligence  had  bred,  crippled  by 
the  loss  of  his  pet  clerk,  and  savagely  angry 
at  the  desolation  in  his  charge,  he  had  once 
damned  the  collective  eyes  of  his  *'  intelli- 
gent local  board  "  for  a  set  of  haramzadas. 
Which  act  of  ''  brutal  and  tyrannous  oppres- 
sion "  won  him  a  Reprimand  Royal  from  the 
Bengal  Government ;  but  in  the  anecdote  as 
amended  for  Northern  consumption  we  find 
no  record  of  this.  Hence  we  are  forced  to 
conclude  that  Mrs.  Hauksbee  ^'  edited  "  his 
reminiscences  before  sowing  them  in  idle 
ears,  ready,  as  she  well  knew,  to  exaggerate 
good  or  evil.  And  Otis  Yeere  bore  himself 
as  befitted  the  hero  of  many  tales. 

*'  You  can  talk  to  me  when  you  don't  fall 
into  a  brown  study.  Talk  now,  and  talk  your 
brightest  and  best,"  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee. 


2l8  UNDER    THE  DEODARS. 

Otis  needed  no  spur.  Look  to  a  man  who 
has  the  counsel  of  a  woman  of  or  above  the 
world  to  back  him.  So  long  as  he  keeps  his 
head,  he  can  meet  both  sexes  on  equal  ground 
—  an  advantage  never  Intended  by  Provi- 
dence, who  fashioned  Man  on  one  day  and 
Woman  on  another,  in  sign  that,  neither 
should  know  more  than  a  very  little  of  the 
other's  life.  Such  a  man  goes  far,  or,  the 
counsel  being  withdrawn,  collapses  suddenly 
while  his  world  seeks  the  reason. 

Generalled  by  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  who,  again, 
had  all  Mrs.  Mallowe's  wisdom  at  her  dis- 
posal, proud  of  himself  and,  in  the  end, 
believing  in  himself  because  he  was  believed 
in,  Otis  Yeere  stood  ready  for  any  fortune 
that  might  befall,  certain  that  it  would  be 
good.  He  would  fight  for  his  own  hand,  and 
intended  that  this  second  struggle  should 
lead  to  better  issue  than  the  first  helpless 
surrender  of  the  bewildered  'Stunt. 

What  might  have  happened,  it  is  impos- 
sible to  say.  This  lamentable  thing  befell, 
bred  directly  by  a  statement  of  Mrs.  Hauks- 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS   YE  ERE      2ig 

bee  that  she  would  spend  the  next  season  in 
Darjiling. 

''Are  you  certain  of  that?"  said  Otis 
Yeere. 

"  Quite.  We're  writing  about  a  house 
now." 

Otis  Yeere  *'  stopped  dead,"  as  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  put  it  in  discussing  the  relapse 
with  Mrs.  Mallowe. 

''  He  has  behaved,"  she  said  angrily,  "just 
like  Captain  Kerrington's  pony  —  only  Otis 
is  a  donkey  —  at  the  last  Gymkhana.  Planted 
his  forefeet  and  refused  to  go  on  another 
step.  Polly,  my  man's  going  to  disappoint 
me.     What  shall  I  do  ? " 

As  a  rule,  Mrs.  Mallowe  does  not  approve 
of  staring,  but  on  this  occasion  she  opened 
her  eyes  to  the  utmost. 

"  You  have  managed  cleverly  so  far,"  she 
said.  *'  Speak  to  him,  and  ask  him  what  he 
means." 

*'  I  will  —  at  to-night's  dance." 

''  No — o,  not  at  a  dance,"  said  Mrs.  Mal- 
lowe cautiously.    *'  Men  are  never  themselves 


220  UNDER    THE  DEODARS. 

quite  at  dances.  Better  wait  till  to-morrow 
morning." 

*'  Nonsense.  If  he's  going  to  revert  in 
this  insane  way,  there  isn't  a  day  to  lose. 
Are  you  going  ?  No  !  Then  sit  up  for  me, 
there's  a  dear.  I  sha'n't  stay  longer  than 
supper  under  any  circumstances." 

Mrs.  Mallowe  waited  through  the  evening, 
looking  long  and  earnestly  into  the  fire,  and 
sometimes  smiling  to  herself. 

"Oh!  oh!  oh!  The  man's  an  idiot!  A 
raving,  positive  idiot !  I'm  sorry  I  ever  saw 
him !  " 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  burst  into  Mrs.  Mallowe's 
house,  at  midnight,  almost  in  tears. 

''What  in  the  world  has  happened  .f^"  said 
Mrs.  Mallowe,  but  her  eyes  showed  that  she 
had  guessed  an  answer. 

''  Happened  !  Everything  has  happened  ! 
He  was  there.  I  went  to  him  and  said, 
*  Now,  what  does  this  nonsense  mean  ? ' 
Don't  laugh,  dear,  I  can't  bear  it.  But  you 
know  what  I  mean  I  said.     Then  it  was  a 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS    YE  ERE.      221 

square,  and  I  sat  it  out  with  him  and  wanted 
an  explanation,  and  he  said —  Oh  !  I  haven't 
patience  with  such  idiots  !  You  know  what 
I  said  about  going  to  DarjiHng  next  year? 
It  doesn't  matter  to  me  where  I  go.  I'd 
have  changed  the  Station  and  lost  the  rent  to 
to  have  saved  this.  He  said,  in  so  many 
words,  that  he  wasn't  going  to  try  to  work  up 
any  more,  because  —  because  he  would  be 
shifted  into  a  province  away  from  DarjiHng, 
and  his  own  District,  where  these  creatures 
are,  is  within  a  day's  journey  " — 

''Ah — hh  !  "  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  in  a  tone 
of  one  who  has  successfully  tracked  an 
obscure  word  through  a  large  dictionary. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  anything  so  mad  — 
so  absurd  ?  And  he  had  the  ball  at  his  feet. 
He  had  only  to  kick  it !  I  would  have  made 
him  anything  !  Anything  in  the  wide  world. 
He  could  have  gone  to  the  world's  end.  I 
would  have  helped  him.  I  made  him,  didn't 
I,  Polly?  Didn't  I  rr^^/^  that  man  ?  Doesn't 
he  owe  everything  to  me  ?  And  to  reward 
me,  just  when  everything  was  nicely  arranged, 
by  this  lunacy  that  spoilt  everything !  " 


222  UNDER   THE  DEODARS, 

"  Very  few  men  understand  devotion 
thoroughly." 

*'  Oh  Polly,  dont  laugh  at  me !  I  give  men 
up  from  this  hour.  I  could  have  killed  him 
then  and  there.  What  right  had  this  man 
—  this  Thing  I  had  picked  out  of  his  filthy 
paddy-fields  —  to  make  love  to  me  ?  " 

-He  did  that,  did  he?" 

"  He  did.  I  don't  remember  half  he  said, 
I  was  so  angry.  Oh,  but  such  a  funny  thing 
happened !  I  can't  help  laughing  at  it  now, 
though  I  felt  nearly  ready  to  cry  with  rage. 
He  raved  and  I  stormed  —  I'm  afraid  we 
must  have  made  an  awful  noise  in  our  kala 
jug g ah.  Protect  my  character,  dear,  if  it's 
all  over  Simla  by  to-morrow  —  and  then  he 
bobbed  forward  in  the  middle  of  this  insanity 
■ —  I  firmly  believe  the  man's  demented  — 
and  kissed  me." 

"  Morals  above  reproach,"  purred  Mrs. 
Mallowe. 

''  So  they  were  —  so  they  are  !  It  was  the 
most  absurd  kiss.  I  don't  believe  he'd  ever 
kissed  a  woman  in  his  life  before.     I   threw 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS    VEERE.      223 

my  head  back,  and  it  was  a  sort  of  slidy, 
pecking  dab,  just  on  the  end  of  the  chin  — 
here."  Mrs.  Hauksbee  tapped  her  rather 
masculine  chin  with  her  fan.  ''  Then,  of 
course,  I  was  furiously  angry,  and  told  him 
that  he  was  no  gentleman,  and  I  was  sorry 
Fd  ever  met  him,  and  so  on.  He  was  crushed 
so  easily  that  I  couldn't  be  very  angry.  Then 
I  came  away  straight  to  you." 

"  Was  this  before  or  after  supper  ?  " 

''Oh!  before  —  oceans  before.  Isn't  it 
perfectly  disgusting  ?  " 

''  Let  me  think.  I  withhold  judgment  till 
to-morrow.     Morning  brings  counsel." 

But  morning  brought  only  a  servant  with 
a  dainty  bouquet  of  Annandale  roses  for  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  to  wear  at  the  dance  at  Viceregal 
Lodge  that  night. 

"  He  doesn't  seem  to  be  very  penitent," 
said  Mrs.  Mallowe.  ''  What's  the  billet-doux 
in  the  centre  ?  " 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  opened  the  neatly  folded 
note,  —  another  accomplishment  that  she  had 
taught  Otis, —  read,  it  and  groaned  tragically. 


224  UNDER    THE  DEODARS. 

**  Last  wreck  of  a  feeble  intellect !  Poetry ! 
Is  it  his  own,  do  you  think  ?  Oh,  that  I  ever 
built  my  hopes  on  such  a  maudlin  idiot !  " 

*'  No.  It's  a  quotation  from  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing, and,  in  view  of  the  facts  of  the  case,  as 
Jack  says,  uncommonly  well  chosen.     Listen  : 

Sweet  thou  hast  trod  on  a  heart  — 
Pass  !     There's  a  world  full  of  men  ; 

And  women  as  fair  as  thou  art. 

Must  do  such  things  now  and  then. 

Thou  only  hast  stepped  unaware  — 

Malice  not  one  can  impute ; 
And  why  should  a  heart  have  been  there, 

In  the  way  of  a  fair  woman's  foot? 

'^  didn't  — I  didn't  — I  didn't!"— said 
Mrs.  Hauksbee  angrily,  her  eyes  filling  with 
tears  ;  **  there  was  no  malice  at  all.  Oh,  it's 
too  vexatious !  " 

"  You've  misunderstood  the  compliment," 
said  Mrs.  Mallowe.  "  He  clears  you  com- 
pletely and  —  ahem  —  I  should  think  by  this, 
that  he  has  cleared  completely  too.     My  ex- 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS   YEERE.     225 

perience  of  men  Is  that  when  they  begin  to 
quote  poetry,  they  are  going  to  flit.  Like 
swans  singing  before  they  die,  you  know." 

''  Polly,  you  take  my  sorrows  In  a  most 
unfeeling  way." 

"Do  I?  Is  It  so  terrible?  If  he's  hurt 
your  vanity,  I  should  say  that  you've  done  a 
certain  amount  of  damage  to  his  heart." 

'' Oh,  you  can  never  tell  about  2.  man!'' 
said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  with  deep  scorn. 


Reviewing  the  matter  as  an  Impartial  out- 
sider. It  strikes  me  that  I'm  about  the  only 
person  who  has  profited  by  the  education  of 
Otis  Yeere.  It  comes  to  twenty-seven  pages 
and  bittock. 


AT  THE   PIT'S   MOUTH. 


Men  say  it  was  a  stolen  tide  — 
The  Lord  that  sent  it  he  knows  all, 

But  in  mine  ear  will  aye  abide 

The  message  that  the  bells  let  fall, 

And  awesome  bells  they  were  to  me, 

That  in  the  dark  rang,  "  Enderby." 

Jean  Ingelow. 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  Man  and 
his  Wife  and  a  Tertium  Quid. 

All  three  were  unwise,  but  the  Wife  was 
the  unwisest.  The  Man  should  have  looked 
after  his  Wife,  who  should  have  avoided  the 
Tertium  Quid,  who,  again,  should  have  mar- 
ried a  wife  of  his  own,  after  clean  and  open 
flirtations,  to  which  nobody  can  possibly 
object,  round  Jakko  or  Observatory  Hill. 
When  you  see  a  young  man  with  his  pony 
in  a  white  lather,  and  his  hat  on  the  back 
of  his  head  flying  down-hill  at  fifteen  miles 


AT  THE  PIT'S  MOUTH.  227 

an  hour  to  meet  a  girl  who  will  be  properly 
surprised  to  meet  him,  you  naturally  approve 
of  that  young  man,  and  wish  him  Staff  ap- 
pointments, and  take  an  interest  in  his  wel- 
fare, and,  as  the  proper  time  comes,  give 
them  sugar-tongs  or  side-saddles  according 
to  your  means  and  generosity. 

The  Tertium  Quid  flew  down-hill  on  horse- 
back, but  it  was  to  meet  the  Man's  Wife  ; 
and  when  he  fiew  up-hill  it  was  for  the  same 
end.  The  Man  was  in  the  Plains,  earning 
money  for  his  Wife  to  spend  on  dresses  and 
four-hundred-rupee  bracelets,  and  inexpen- 
sive luxuries  of  that  kind.  He  worked  very 
hard,  and  sent  her  a  letter  or  a  post-card 
daily.  She  also  wrote  to  him  daily,  and  said 
that  she  was  longing  for  him  to  come  up  to 
Simla.  The  Tertium  Quid  used  to  lean  over 
her  shoulder  and  laugh  as  she  wrote  the 
notes.  Then  the  two  would  ride  to  the  Post- 
office  together. 

Now,  Simla  is  a  strange  place,  and  Its 
customs  are  peculiar ;  nor  is  any  man  who 
has    not   spent   at   least   ten    seasons   there 


228  UNDER    THE  DEODARS. 

qualified  to  pass  judgment  on  circumstantial 
evidence,  which  Is  the  most  untrustworthy  In 
the  Courts.  For  these  reasons,  and  for 
others  which  need  not  appear,  I  decline  to 
state  positively  whether  there  was  anything 
irretrievably  wrong  In  the  relations  between 
the  Man's  Wife  and  the  Tertlum  Quid.  If 
there  was,  and  hereon  you  must  form  your 
own  opinion.  It  was  the  Man's  Wife's  fault. 
She  was  kittenish  in  her  manners,  wearing 
generally  an  air  of  soft  and  fluffy  Innocence. 
But  she  was  deadlily  learned  and  evil-in- 
structed ;  and,  now  and  again,  when  the 
mask  dropped,  men  saw  this,  shuddered  and 
—  almost  drew  back.  Men  are  occasionally 
particular,  and  the  least  particular  men  are 
always  the  most  exacting. 

Simla  Is  eccentric  In  Its  fashion  of  treating 
friendships.  Certain  attachments  which  have 
set  and  crystallized  through  half  a  dozen 
seasons  acquire  almost  the  sanctity  of  the 
marriage  bond,  and  are  revered  as  such. 
Again,  certain  attachments  equally  old,  and, 
to   all  appearance,  equally  venerable,  never 


AT  THE  PIT'S  MOUTH.  229 

seem  to  win  any  recognized  official  status  ; 
while  a  chance-sprung  acquaintance,  not  two 
months  old,  steps  into  the  place  which  by 
right  belongs  to  the  senior.  There  is  no 
law  reducible  to  print  which  regulates  these 
affairs. 

Some  people  have  a  gift  which  secures 
them  infinite  toleration,  and  others  have  not. 
The  Man's  Wife  had  not.  If  she  looked 
over  the  garden  wall,  for  instance,  women 
taxed  her  with  stealing  their  husbands.  She 
complained  pathetically  that  she  was  not 
allowed  to  choose  her  own  friends.  When 
she  put  up  her  big  white  muff  to  her  lips, 
and  gazed  over  it  and  under  her  eyebrows  at 
you  as  she  said  this  thing,  you  felt  that  she 
had  been  infamously  misjudged,  and  that  all 
the  other  women's  instincts  were  all  wrong  ; 
which  was  absurd.  She  was  not  allowed  to 
own  the  Tertium  Quid  in  peace  ;  and  was  so 
strangely  constructed  that  she  would  not 
have  enjoyed  peace  had  she  been  so  per- 
mitted. She  preferred  some  semblance  of 
intrigue  to  cloak  even  her  most  commonplace 
actions. 


230  UNDER    THE   DEODARS. 

After  two  months  of  riding,  first  round 
Jakko,  then  Elysium,  then  Summer  Hill, 
then  Observatory  Hill,  then  under  Jutogh, 
and  lastly  up  and  down  the  Cart  Road  as 
far  as  the  Tara  Devi  gap  in  the  dusk,  she 
said  to  the  Tertium  Quid,  "  Frank,  people 
say  we  are  too  much  together,  and  people 
are  so  horrid." 

The  Tertium  Quid  pulled  his  mustache, 
and  replied  that  horrid  people  were  un- 
worthy of  the  consideration  of  nice  people. 

''But  they  have  done  more  than  talk  — 
they  have  written  —  written  to  my  hubby  — 
I'm  sure  of  it,"  said  the  Man's  Wife,  and  she 
pulled  a  letter  from  her  husband  out  of  her 
saddle-pocket  and  gave  it  to  the  Tertium 
Quid. 

It  was  an  honest  letter,  written  by  an 
honest  man,  then  stewing  in  the  Plains  on 
two  hundred  rupees  a  month  (for  he  allowed 
his  wife  eight  hundred  and  fifty),  and  in  a 
silk  banian  and  cotton  trousers.  It  is  said 
that,  perhaps,  she  had  not  thought  of  the 
unwisdom   of  allowing   her  name    to  be  so 


AT  THE  PIT'S  MOUTH.  23 1 

generally  coupled  with  the  Tertium  Quid's ; 
that  she  was  too  much  of  a  child  to  under- 
stand the  dangers  of  that  sort  of  thing ; 
that  he,  her  husband,  was  the  last  fnan  in 
the  world  to  interfere  jealously  with  her  little 
amusements  and  interests,  but  that  it  would 
be  better  were  she  to  drop  the  Tertium  Quid 
quietly  and  for  her  husband's  sake.  The  let- 
ter was  sweetened  with  many  pretty  little  pet 
names,  and  it  amused  the  Tertium  Quid  con- 
siderably. He  and  She  laughed  over  it,  so 
that  you,  fifty  yards  away,  could  see  their 
shoulders  shaking  while  the  horses  slouched 
along  side  by  side. 

Their  conversation  was  not  worth  report- 
ing. The  upshot  of  it  was  that,  next  day,  no 
one  saw  the  Man's  Wife  and  the  Tertium 
Quid  together.  They  had  both  gone  down 
to  the  Cemetery,  which,  as  a  rule,  is  only 
visited  officially  by  the  inhabitants  of  Simla. 

A  Simla  funeral  with  the  clergyman  riding, 
the  mourners  riding,  and  the  coffin  creaking 
as  It  swings  between  the  bearers,  is  one  of 
the   most   depressing  things   on  this   earth, 


232  UNDER   THE  DEODARS, 

particularly  when  the  procession  passes  under 
the  wet,  dank  dip  beneath  the  Rockcllffe 
Hotel,  where  the  sun  is  shut  out,  and  all 
the  hfll  streams  are  wailing  and  weeping 
together  as  they  go  down  the  valleys. 

Occasionally,  folk  tend  the  graves,  but  we 
in  India  shift  and  are  transferred  so  often 
that,  at  the  end  of  the  second  year,  the 
Dead  have  no  friends  —  only  acquaintances 
who  are  far  too  busy  amusing  themselves  up 
the  hill  to  attend  to  old  partners.  The  idea 
of  using  a  Cemetery  as  a  rendezvous  is  dis- 
tinctly a  feminine  one.  A  man  would  have 
said  simply,  "  Let  people  talk.  We'll  go 
down  the  Mall.".  A  woman  is  made  differ- 
ently, especially  if  she  be  such  a  woman  as 
the  Man's  Wife.  She  and  the  Tertium  Quid 
enjoyed  each  other's  society  among  the 
graves  of  men  and  women  that  they  had 
known  and  danced  with  aforetime. 

They  used  to  take  a  big  horse-blanket  and 
sit  on  the  grass  a  little  to  the  left  of  the 
lower  end,  where  there  is  a  dip  in  the 
ground,  and  where  the  occupied  graves  die 


AT  THE  PIT'S  MOUTH.  .233 

out  and  the  ready-made  ones  are  not  ready. 
Any  self-respecting  Indian  Cemetery  keeps 
half  a  dozen  graves  permanently  open  for 
contingencies  and  incidental  wear  and  tear. 
In  the  Hills  these  are  more  usually  baby's 
size,  because  children  who  come  up  weak- 
ened and  sick  from  the  Plains  often  succumb 
to  the  effects  of  the  Rains  in  the  Hills,  or 
get  pneumonia  from  their  ayahs  taking  them 
through  damp  pine-woods  after  the  sun  has 
set.  In  Cantonments,  of  course,  the  man's 
size  is  more  in  request ;  these  arrangements 
varying  with  the  climate  and  population. 

One  day  when  the  Man's  Wife  and  the 
Tertium  Quid  had  just  arrived  in  the  Ceme- 
tery, they  saw  some  coolies  breaking  ground. 
They  had  marked  out  a  full-size  grave,  and 
the  Tertium  Quid  asked  them  whedier  any 
Sahib  was  sick.  They  said  that  they  did  not 
know ;  but  it  was  an  order  that  they  should 
dig  a  Sahib's  grave. 

"•  Work  away,"  said  the  Tertium  Quid, 
**  and  let's  see  how  it's  done." 

The  coolies  worked  away,  and  the  Man's 


234  UNDER    THE  DEODARS. 

Wife  and  the  Tertium  Quid  watched  and 
talked  for  a  couple  of  hours  while  the  grave 
was  being  deepened.  Then  a  coolie,  taking 
the  earth  In  baskets  as  It  was  thrown  up, 
jumped  over  the  grave. 

''  That's  queer,"  said  the  Tertium  Quid. 
''Where's  my  ulster?" 

''What's  queer?"  said  the  Man's  Wife. 

"I  have  got  a  chill  down  my  back — just 
as  If  a  goose  have  walked  over  my  grave." 

"Why  do  you  look  at  the  horror,  then?" 
said  the  Man's  Wife.     "  Let  us  go." 

The  Tertium  Quid  stood  at  the  head  of  the 
grave,  and  stared  without  answering  for  a 
space.  Then  he  said,  dropping  a  pebble 
down,  "It  is  nasty  —  and  cold:  horribly 
cold.  I  don't  think  I  shall  come  to  the 
Cemetery  any  more.  I  don't  think  grave- 
dlgglng  is  cheerful." 

The  two  talked  and  agreed  that  the  Ceme- 
tery was  depressing.  They  also  arranged 
for  a  ride  next  day  out  from  the  Cemetery 
through  the  Mashobra  Tunnel  up  to  Fagoo 
and  back,  because  ail  the  world  was  going  to 


AT  THE  PIT'S  MOUTH.  235 

a  garden-party  at  Viceregal  Lodge,  and  all 
the  people  of  Mashobra  would  go  too. 

Coming  up  the  Cemetery  road,  the  Ter- 
tium  Quid's  horse  tried  to  bolt  up-hill,  being 
tired  with  standing  so  long,  and  managed  to 
strain  a  back  sinew. 

"  I  shall  have  to  take  the  mare  to-morrow," 
said  the  Tertium  Quid,  ''  and  she  will  stand 
nothing  heavier  than  a  snaffle." 

They  made  their  arrangements  to  meet  in 
the  Cemetery,  after  allowing  all  the  Mashobra 
people  time  to  pass  into  Simla.  That  night 
it  rained  heavily,  and,  next  day,  when  the 
Tertium  Quid  came  to  the  trystlng-place,  he 
saw.  that  the  new  grave  had  a  foot  of  water  in 
it,  the  ground  being  a  tough  and  sour  clay. 

'''Jove!  That  looks  beastly,"  said  the 
Tertium  Quid.  "  Fancy  being  boarded  up 
and  dropped  into  that  well !  " 

They  then  started  off  to  Fagoo,  the  mare 
playing  with  the  snaffle  and  picking  her  way 
as  though  she  were  shod  with  satin,  and  the 
sun  shining  divinely.  The  road  below  Ma- 
shobra   to    Fagoo    is    officially    styled    the 


236  UNDER    THE   DEODARS. 

Himalayan-Thibet  Road  ;  but  in  spite  of  its 
name  it  is  not  much  more  than  six  feet  wide 
in  most  places,  and  the  drop  into  the  valley 
below  may  be  anything  between  one  and  two 
thousand  feet. 

"  Now  we're  going  to  Thibit,"  said  the 
Man's  Wife  merrily  as  the  horses  drew  near 
to  Fagoo.     She  was  riding  on  the  cliff-side. 

''  Into  Thibet,"  said  the  Tertium  Quid, 
"•  ever  so  far  from  people  who  say  horrid 
things,  and  hubbys  who  write  stupid  letters. 
With  you  —  to  the  end  of  the  world  !  " 

A  coolie  carrying  a  log  of  wood  came 
round  a  corner,  and  the  mare  went  wide  to 
avoid  him  —  forefeet  in  and  haunches  out, 
as  a  sensible  mare  should  go. 

''  To  the  world's  end,"  said  the  Man's  Wife, 
and  looked  unspeakable  things  over  her  near 
shoulder  at  the  Tertium  Quid. 

He  was  smiling,  but,  while  she  looked,  the 
smile  froze  stiff  as  it  were  on  his  face,  and 
changed  to  a  nervous  grin  —  the  sort  of  grin 
men  wear  when  they  are  not  quite  easy  in 
their  saddles.     The  mare  seemed  to  be  sink- 


AT  THE  PIT'S  MOUTH.  237 

ing  by  the  stern,  and  her  nostrils  cracked 
while  she  was  trying  to  realize  what  was 
happening.  The  rain  of  the  previous  night 
had  rotted  the  drop-side  of  the  Himalayan- 
Thibet  Road,  and  it  was  giving  way  under 
her.  "What  are  you  doing?"  said  the 
Man's  Wife.  The  Tertium  Quid  gave  no 
answer.  He  grinned  nervously  and  set  his 
spurs  into  the  mare,  who  rapped  with  her 
forefeet  on  the  road,  and  the  struggle  began. 
The  Man's  Wife  screamed,  "Oh  Frank,  get 
off!" 

But  the  Tertium  Quid  was  glued  to  the 
saddle  —  his  face  blue  and  white  —  and  he 
looked  into  the  Man's  Wife's  eyes.  Then 
the  Man's  Wife  clutched  at  the  mare's  head 
and  caught  her  by  the  nose  instead  of  the 
bridle.  The  brute  threw  up  her  head  and 
went  down  with  a  scream,  the  Tertium  Quid 
upon  her,  and  the  nervous  grin  still  set  on 
his  face. 

The  Man's  Wife  heard  the  tinkle-tinkle  of 
little  stones  and  loose  earth  falling  off  the 
roadway,  and   the  sliding  roar  of  the   man 


238  UNDER   THE   DEODARS. 

and  horse  going  down.  Then  everything 
was  quiet,  and  she  called  on  Frank  to  leave 
his  mare  and  walk  up.  But  Frank  did  not 
answer.  He  was  underneath  the  mare,  nine 
hundred  feet  below,  spoiling  a  patch  of 
Indian  corn. 

As  the  revellers  came  back  from  Viceregal 
Lodge  in  the  mists  of  the  evening,  they  met 
a  temporarily  insane  woman,  on  a  tempo- 
rarily mad  horse,  swinging  round  the  corners, 
with  her  eyes  and  her  mouth  open,  and  her 
head  like  the  head  of  a  Medusa.  She  was 
stopped  by  a  man  at  the  risk  of  his  life,  and 
taken  out  of  the  saddle,  a  limp  heap,  and  put 
on  the  bank  to  explain  herself.  This  wasted 
twenty  minutes,  and  then  she  was  sent  home 
in  a  lady's  'rickshaw,  still  with  her  mouth  open 
and  her  hands  picking  at  her  riding-gloves. 

She  was  in  bed  for  the  following  three 
days,  which  were  rainy;  so  she  missed 
attending  the  funeral  of  the  Tertium  Quid, 
who  was  lowered  into  eighteen  inches  of 
water,  instead  of  the  twelve  to  which  he  had 
first  objected.  . 


A  WAYSIDE  COMEDY. 


Because  to  every  purpose  there  is  time  and  judgment ;  there- 
fore the  misery  of  man  is  great  upon  him. 

Eccl.  via.  6. 

Fate  and  the  Government  of  India  have 
turned  the  Station  of  Kashima  into  a  prison  ; 
and,  because  there  is  no  help  for  the  poor 
souls  who  are  now  lying  there  in  torment,  I 
write  this  story,  praying  that  the  Government 
of  India  may  be  moved  to  scatter  the  Euro- 
pean population  to  the  Four  Winds. 

Kashima  is  bounded  on  all  sides  by  the 
rock-tipped  circle  of  the  Dosehri  hills.  In 
Spring,  it  is  ablaze  with  roses ;  in  Summer, 
the  roses  die  and  the  hot  winds  blow  from 
the  hills;  in  Autumn,  the  white  mists  from  the 
jkils  cover  the  place  as  with  water,  and  in 
Winter  the  frosts  nip  everything  young  and 
tender  to  carthrleveL     There  is  but  one  view 


240  UNDER    THE  DEODARS, 

in  Kashima — that  of  a  stretch  of  perfectly 
fiat  pasture  and  plough-land,  running  up  to 
the  gray-blue  scrub  of  the  Dosehri  hills. 

There  are  no  amusements  except  snipe 
and  tiger  shooting  ;  but  the  tigers  have  been 
long  since  hunted  from  their  lairs  in  the  rock- 
caves,  and  the  snipe  only  come  once  a  year. 
Narkarra  —  one  hundred  and  forty- three 
miles  by  road  —  is  the  nearest  station  to 
Kashima.  But  Kashima  never  goes  to  Nar- 
karra, where  there  are  at  least  twelve  English 
people.  It  stays  within  the  circle  of  the 
Dosehri  hills. 

All  Kashima  acquits  Mrs.  Vansuythen  of 
any  intention  to  do  harm ;  but  all  Kashima 
knows  that  she,  and  she  alone,  brought  about 
their  pain. 

Boulte,  the  Engineer,  Mrs.  Boulte,  and 
Captain  Kurrell  know  this.  They  are  the 
English  population  of  Kashima,  if  we  except 
Major  Vansuythen,  who  is  of  no  importance 
whatever,  and  Mrs.  Vansuythen,  who  is  the 
most  important  of  all. 

You  must  remember,  though  you  wiU   not 


A    WAYSIDE   COMEDY.  24 1 

understand,  that  all  laws  weaken  in  a  small 
and  hidden  community  where  there  Is  no 
public  opinion.  If  the  Israelites  had  been 
only  a  ten-tent  camp  of  gypsies,  their  Head- 
man would  never  have  taken  the  trouble  to 
climb  a  hill  and  bring  down  the  lithographed 
edition  of  the  Decalogue,  and  a  great  deal  of 
trouble  would  have  been  avoided.  When  a 
man  Is  absolutely  alone  in  a  Station  he  runs 
a  certain  risk  of  falling  Into  evil  ways.  This 
risk  is  multiplied  by  every  addition  to  the 
population  up  to  twelve  —  the  Jury-number. 
After  that,  fear  and  consequent  restraint 
begin,  and  human  action  becomes  less 
grotesquely  jerky. 

There  was  deep  peace  in  Kashima  till  Mrs. 
Vansuythen  arrived.  She  was  a  charming 
woman,  every  one  said  so  everywhere  ;  and 
she  charmed  every  one.  In  spite  of  this,  or, 
perhaps,  because  of  this,  since  Fate  is  so 
maliciously  perverse,  she  cared  only  for  one 
man,  and  he  was  Major  Vansuythen.  Had 
she  been  plain  or  stupid,  this  matter  would 
have  been  intelligible  to  Kashima.     But  she 


242  UNDER   THE  DEODARS. 

was  a  fair  woman,  with  very  still  gray  eyes, 
the  color  of  a  lake  just  before  the  light  of  the 
sun  touches  It.  No  man  who  had  seen  those 
eyes  could,  later  on,  explain  what  fashion  of 
woman  she  was  to  look  upon.  The  eyes 
dazzled  him.  Her  own  sex  said  that  she  was 
"  not  bad  looking,  but  spoilt  by  pretending  to 
be  so  grave."  And  yet  her  gravity  was 
natural.  It  was  not  her  habit  to  smile.  She 
merely  went  through  life,  looking  at  those 
who  passed  ;  and  the  women  objected  while 
the  men  fell  down  and  worshipped. 

She  knows  and  Is  deeply  sorry  for  the  evil 
she  has  done  to  Kashlma ;  but  Major  Van- 
suythen  cannot  understand  why  Mrs.  Boulte 
does  not  drop  In  to  afternoon  tea  at  least 
three  times  a  week.  "  When  there  are  only 
two  women  In  one  Station,  they  ought  to  see 
a  great  deal  of  each  other,"  says  Major 
Vansuythen. 

Long  and  long  before  ever  Mrs.  Vansuy- 
then came  out  of  those  far-away  places  where 
there  Is  society  and  amusement,  Kurrell  had 
discovered    that    Mrs.    Boulte  was    the    one 


A    WAYSIDE   COMEDY.  243 

woman  in  the  world  for  him  and  —  you  dare 
not  blame  them.  Kashima  was  as  out 
of  the  world  as  Heaven  or  the  Other 
Place,  and  the  Dosehri  hills  kept  their 
secret  well.  Boulte  had  no  concern  in  the 
matter.  He  was  in  camp  for  a  fortnight  at  a 
time.  He  was  a  hard,  heavy  man,  and 
neither  Mrs.  Boulte  nor  Kurrell  pitied  him. 
They  had  all  Kashima  and  each  other  for 
their  very,  very  own  ;  and  Kashima  was  the 
Garden  of  Eden  in  those  days.  When 
Boulte  returned  from  his  wanderings  he 
would  slap  Kurrell  between  the  shoulders 
and  call  him  "  old  fellow,"  and  the  three 
would  dine  together.  Kashima  was  happy 
then  when  the  judgment  of  God  seemed 
almost  as  distant  as  Narkarra  or  the  railway 
that  ran  down  to  the  sea.  But  the  Govern- 
ment sent  Major  Vansuythen  to  Kashima, 
and  with  him  came  his  wife. 

The  etiquette  of  Kashima  is  much  the 
same  as  that  of  a  desert  island.  When  a 
stranger  is  cast  away  there,  all  hands  go 
down  to  the   shore  to  make  him  welcome. 


244  UNDER    THE  DEODARS. 

Kashlma  assembled  at  the  masonry  platform 
close  to  the  Narkarra  Road,  and  spread  tea 
for  the  Vansuythens.  That  ceremony  was 
reckoned  a  formal  call,  and  made  them  free 
of  the  Station,  its  rights  and  privileges. 
When  the  Vansuythens  were  settled  down, 
they  gave  a  tiny  house-warming  to  all 
Kashima ;  and  that  made  Kashima  free  of 
their  house,  according  to  the  immemorial 
usage  of  the  Station. 

Then  the  Rains  came,  when  no  one  could 
go  into  camp,  and  the  Narkarra  Road  was 
washed  away  by  the  Kasun  River,  and  in  the 
cup-like  pastures  of  Kashima  the  cattle 
waded  knee-deep.  The  clouds  dropped 
down  from  the  Dosehri  hills  and  covered 
everything. 

At  the  end  of  the  Rains,  Boulte's  manner 
towards  his  wife  changed  and  became  demon- 
stratively affectionate.  They  had  been  mar- 
ried twelve  years,  and  the  change  startled 
Mrs.  Boulte,  who  hated  her  husband  with  the 
hate  of  a  woman  who  has  met  with  nothing 
but  kindness  from  her  mate,  and,  in  the  teeth 


A    WAYSIDE   COMEDY.  245 

of  this  kindness,  has  done  him  a  great  wrong. 
Moreover,  she  had  her  own  trouble  to  fight 
with  —  her  watch  to  keep  over  her  own 
property,  Kurrell.  For  two  months  the  Rains 
had  hidden  the  Dosehri  hills  and  many  other 
things  beside  ;  but,  when  they  lifted,  they 
showed  Mrs.  Boulte  that  her  man  among  men, 
her  Ted  —  for  she  called  him  Ted  in  the  old 
days  when  Boulte  was  out  of  ear-shot  —  was 
slipping  the  links  of  the  allegiance. 

''The  Vansuythen Woman  has  taken  him," 
Mrs.  Boulte  said  to  herself ;  and  when  Boulte 
was  away,  wept  over  her  belief,  in  the  face  of 
the  over-vehement  blandishments  of  Ted. 
Sorrow  in  Kashlma  is  as  fortunate  as  Love, 
in  that  there  is  nothing  to  weaken  it  save 
the  flight  of  Time.  Mrs.  Boulte  had  never 
breathed  her  suspicion  to  Kurrell  because 
she  was  not  certain  ;  and  her  nature  led  her 
to  be  very  certain  before  she  took  steps  in 
any  direction.  That  is  why  she  behaved  as 
she  did. 

Boulte  came  into  the  house  one  evening, 
and   leaned   against   the   door-posts   of   the 


246  UNDER   THE  DEODARS. 

drawing-room,  chewing  his  mustache.  Mrs. 
Boulte  was  putting  some  flowers  into  a  vase. 
There  is  a  pretence  of  civiHzation  even  in 
Kashima. 

''  Little  woman,"  said  Boulte  quietly,  ''  do 
you  care  for  me  ?  " 

"  Immensely,"  said  she,  with  a  laugh. 
*'  Can  you  ask  it  ?  " 

"  But  I'm  serious,"  said  Boulte.  *'  Do  you 
care  for  me  ?  " 

Mrs.  Boulte  dropped  the  flowers,  and 
turned  round  quickly.  *'  Do  you  want  an 
honest  answer  ? " 

*'  Ye-es,  I've  asked  for  it." 

Mrs.  Boulte  spoke  in  a  low,  even  voice  for 
^iv^  minutes,  very  distinctly,  that  there  might 
be  no  misunderstanding  her  meaning.  When 
Samson  broke  the  pillars  of  Gaza,  he  did 
a  little  thing,  and  one  not  to  be  compared  to 
the  deliberate  pulling  down  of  a  woman's 
homestead  about  her  own  ears.  There  was 
no  wise  female  friend  to  advise  Mrs.  Boulte, 
the  singularly  cautious  wife,  to  hold  her  hand. 
She    struck   a'   Boulte's    heart,  because    her 


A    WAYSIDE   COMEDY.  247 

own  was  sick  with  suspicion  of  Kurrell,  and 
worn  out  with  the  long  strain  of  watching 
alone  through  the  Rains.  There  was  no 
plan  or  purpose  in  her  speaking.  The  sen- 
tences made  themselves ;  and  Boulte  lis- 
tened, leaning  against  the  door  post  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets.  When  all  was  over, 
and  Mrs.  Boulte  began  to  breathe  through 
her  nose  before  breaking  out  into  tears,  he 
laughed  and  stared  straight  in  front  of  him 
at  the  Dosehri  hills. 

''  Is  that  all?"  he  said.  *'  Thanks,  I  only 
wanted  to  know,  you  know." 

*'  What  are  you  going  to  do  ? "  said  the 
woman,  between  her  sobs. 

"Do!  Nothing.  What  should  I  do? 
Kill  Kurrell  or  send  you  Home,  or  apply  for 
leave  to  get  a  divorce  ?  It's  two  days'  dak 
into  Narkarra."  He  laughed  again  and  went 
on  :  "  ril  tell  you  what  you  can  do.  You 
can  ask  Kurrell  to  dinner  to-morrow  —  no, 
on  Thursday,  that  will  allow  you  time  to 
pack  —  and  you  can  bolt  with  him.  I  give 
you  my  word  I  won't  follow." 


248  UNDER   THE  DEODARS. 

He  took  Up  his  helmet  and  went  out  of 
the  room,  and  Mrs.  Boulte  sat  till  the  moon- 
light streaked  the  floor,  thinking  and  think- 
ing and  thinking.  She  had  done  her  best 
upon  the  spur  of  the  moment  to  pull  the 
house  down  ;  but  it  would  not  fall.  More- 
over, she  could  not  understand  her  husband, 
and  she  was  afraid.  Then  the  folly  of  her 
useless  truthfulness  struck  her,  and  she  was 
ashamed  to  write  to  Kurrell,  saying,  "  I 
have  gone  mad  and  told  everything.  My  hus- 
band says  that  I  am  free  to  elope  with  you. 
Get  a  dak  for  Thursday,  and  we  will  fly  after 
dinner."  There  was  a  cold-bloodedness 
about  that  procedure  which  did  not  appeal  to 
her.  So  she  sat  still  in  her  own  house  and 
thought. 

At  dinner-time  Boulte  came  back  from  his 
walk,  white  and  worn  and  haggard,  and  the 
woman  was  touched  at  his  distress.  As  the 
evening  wore  on,  she  muttered  some  expres- 
sion of  sorrow,  something  approaching  to 
contrition.  Boulte  came  out  of  a  brown 
study    and    said,     "  Oh,    that !        I    wasn't 


A    IVAYSIDE   COMEDY.  249 

thinking  about  that.  By  the  way,  what  does 
Kurrell  say  to  the  elopement  ?  " 

'*  I  haven't  seen  him,"  said  Mrs.  Boulte. 
'^Good'God,  is  that  all?" 

But  Boulte  was  not  listening,  and  her  sen- 
tence ended  in  a  gulp. 

The  next  day  brought  no  comfort  to  Mrs. 
Boulte,  for  Kurrell  did  not  appear,  and  the 
new  life  that  she,  in  the  five  minutes'  mad- 
ness of  the  previous  evening,  had  hoped  to 
build  out  of  the  ruins  of  the  old,  seemed  to 
be  no  nearer. 

Boulte  ate  his  breakfast,  advised  her  to 
see  her  Arab  pony  fed  in  the  veranda,  and 
went  out.  The  morning  wore  through,  and 
at  midday  the  tension  became  unendurable. 
Mrs.  Boulte  could  not  cry.  She  had  finished 
her  crying  in  the  night,  and  now  she  did  not 
want  to  be  left  alone.  Perhaps  the  Vansuy- 
then  Woman  would  talk  to  her ;  and,  since 
talking  opens  the  heart,  perhaps  there  might 
be  some  comfort  to  be  found  in  her  company. 
She  was  the  only  other  woman  in  the 
Station. 


250  UNDER    THE  DEODARS. 

In  Kashlma  there  are  no  regular  calling- 
hours.  Every  one  can  drop  in  upon  every 
one  else  at  pleasure.  Mrs.  Boulte  put  on  a 
big  terai  hat,  and  walked  across  to  the  Van- 
suythen's  house  to  borrow  last  week's  Queen, 
The  two  compounds  touched,  and  instead  of 
going  up  the  drive,  she  crossed  through  the 
gap  in  the  cactus-hedge,  entering  the  house 
from  the  back.  As  she  passed  through  the 
dining-room,  she  heard,  behind  the  purdah 
that  cloaked  the  drawing-room  door,  her 
husband's  voice,  saying,  — 

"  But  on  my  Honor !  On  my  Soul  and 
Honor,  I  tell  you  she  doesn't  care  for  me. 
She  told  me  so  last  night.  I  would  have 
told  you  then  if  Vansuythen  hadn't  been  with 
you.  If  it  is  for  her  sake  that  you'll  have 
nothing  to  say  to  me,  you  can  make  your 
mind  easy.     It's  Kurrell  "  — 

**What?"  said  Mrs.  Vansuythen,  with  an 
hysterical  little  laugh.  ''  Kurrell !  Oh,  it 
can't  be  !  You  two  must  have  made  some 
horrible  mistake.  Perhaps .  you  • —  you  lost 
your    temper,    or    misunderstood,   or  some- 


A    WAYSIDE   COMEDY.  25 1 

thing.  Things  cant  be  as  wrong  as  you 
say." 

Mrs.  Vansuythen  had  shifted  her  defence 
to  avoid  the  man's  pleading,  and  was  desper- 
ately trying  to  keep  him  to  a  side-issue. 

*' There  must  be  some  mistake,"  she  in- 
sisted, ''  and  it  can  be  all  put  right  again." 

Boulte  laughed  grimly. 

''  It  can't  be  Captain  Kurrell !  He  told 
me  that  he  had  never  taken  the  least  —  the 
least  interest  in  your  wife,  Mr.  Boulte.  Oh, 
do  listen !  He  said  he  had  not.  He  swore 
he  had  not,"  said  Mrs.  Vansuythen. 

The  purdah  rustled,  and  the  speech  was 
cut  short  by  the  entry  of  a  little,  thin  woman, 
with  big  rings  round  her  eyes,  Mrs.  Van- 
suythen stood  up  with  a  gasp. 

''What  was  that  you  said?"  asked  Mrs. 
Boulte.  ''  Never  mind  that  man.  What  did 
Ted  say  to  you  ?  What  did  he  say  to  you  ? 
What  did  he  say  to  you  ? " 

Mrs.  Vansuythen  sat  down  helplessly  on 
the  sofa,  overborne  by  the  trouble  of  her 
questioner. 


252  UNDER    THE   DEODARS. 

''  He  said  —  I  can't  remember  exactly  what 
he  said  — but  I  understood  him  to  say  —  that 
is  .  .  .  But,  really,  Mrs.  Boulte,  isn't  it 
rather  a  strange  question  ?" 

"  Will  you  tell  me  what  he  said  ? "  repeated 
Mrs.  Boulte.  Even  a  tiger  will  fly  before  a 
bear  robbed  of  her  whelps,  and  Mrs.  Van- 
suythen  was  only  an  ordinarily  good  woman. 
She  began  in  a  sort  of  desperation:  "Well, 
he  said  that  he  never  cared  for  you  at  all, 
and,  of  course,  there  was  not  the  least  reason 
why  he  should  have,  and  —  and — that  was 
all." 

*'  You  said  he  swore  he  had  not  cared  for 
me.     Was  that  true  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Vansuythen  very  softly. 

Mrs.  Boulte  wavered  for  an  instant  where 
she  stood,  and  then  fell  forward  fainting. 

''What  did  I  tell  you?"  said  Boulte,  as 
though  the  conversation  had  been  unbroken. 
''  You  can  see  for  yourself.  She  cares  for 
him!'  The  light  began  to  break  into  his 
dull  mind,  and  he  went  on  —  "And  he  — 
what  was  he  saying  to  you  ?  " 


A    WAYSIDE  COMEDY,  253 

But  Mrs.  Vansuythen,  with  no  heart  for 
explanations  or  impassioned  protestations, 
was  kneeling  over  Mrs.  Boulte. 

''  Oh  you  brute  !  "  she  cried.  ''  Are  all 
men  like  this  ?  Help  me  to  get  her  into  my 
room  —  and  her  face  is  cut  against  the  table. 
Oh,  will  you  be  quiet,  and  help  me  to  carry 
her?  I  hate  you,  and  I  hate  Captain  Kurrell. 
Lift  her  up  carefully  and  now  —  go  !  Go 
away ! " 

Boulte  carried  his  wife  into  Mrs.  Vansuy- 
then's  bedroom  and  departed  before  the 
storm  of  that  lady's  wrath  and  disgust,  im- 
penitent and  burning  with  jealousy.  Kurrell 
had  been  making  love  to  Mrs.  Vansuythen  — 
would  do  Vansuythen  as  great  a  wrong  as  he 
had  done  Boulte  who  caught  himself  consid- 
ering whether  Mrs.  Vansuythen  would  faint 
if  she  discovered  that  the  man  she  loved  had 
foresworn  her. 

In  the  middle  of  these  meditations,  Kur- 
rell came  cantering  along  the  road  and  pulled 
up  with  a  cheery :  "  Good-mornin'.  'Been 
mashing   Mrs.    Vansuythen    as    usual,    eh  ? 


254  UNDER   THE  DEODARS, 

Bad  thing  for  a  sober,  married  man,  that. 
What  will  Mrs.  Boiilte  say  ?  " 

Boulte  raised  his  head  and  said  slowly,  — 
''  Oh,  you  liar ! "  Kurrell's  face  changed, 
*'  What's  that?"  he  asked  quickly. 

*'  Nothing  much,"  said  Boulte.  *'  Has  my 
wife  told  you  that  you  tvv^o  are  free  to  go  off 
whenever  you  please?  She  has  been  good 
enough  to  explain  the  situation  to  me. 
You've  been  a  true  friend  to  me,  Kurrell  — 
old  man  —  haven't  you  ?  " 

Kurrell  groaned,  and  tried  to  frame  some 
sort  of  idiotic  sentence  about  being  willing 
to  give  ''  satisfaction."  But  his  interest  in 
the  woman  was  dead,  had  died  out  in  the 
Rains,  and,  mentally,  he  was  abusing  her  for 
her  amazing  indiscretion.  It  would  have 
been  so  easy  to  have  broken  off  the  liaison 
gently  and  by  degrees,  and  now  he  was 
saddled  with  .  .  .  Boulte's  voice  recalled 
him. 

*'  I  don't  think  I  should  get  any  satisfaction 
from  killing  you,  and  I'm  pretty  sure  you'd 
get  none  from  killing  me." 


A    WAYSIDE   COMEDY,  255 

Then  in  a  querulous  tone,  ludicrously  dls- 
proportioned  to  his  wrongs,  Boulte  added :  — 

"  'Seems  rather  a  pity  that  you  haven't  the 
decency  to  keep  to  the  woman,  now  you've 
got  her.  You've  been  a  true  friend  to  her 
too,  haven't  you  ?  " 

Kurrell  stared  long  and  gravely.  The 
situation  was  getting  beyond  him. 

'*  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  said. 

Boulte  answered,  more  to  himself  than  the 
questioner :  *'  My  wife  came  over  to  Mrs. 
Vansuythen's  just  now ;  and  it  seems  you'd 
been  telling  Mrs.  Vansuythen  that  you'd 
never  cared  for  Emma.  I  suppose  you  lied, 
as  usual.  What  had  Mrs.  Vansuythen  to  do 
with  you,  or  you  with  her?  Try  to  speak 
the  truth  for  once  in  a  way." 

Kurrell  took  the  double  insult  without 
wincing,  and  replied  by  another  question  :  — 
**  Go  on.     What  happened  ? " 

"  Emma  fainted,"  said  Boulte  simply.  "  But, 
look  here,  what  had  you  been  saying  to  Mrs. 
Vansuythen  ?  " 

Kurrell  laughed.     Mrs.   Boulte   had,  with 


256  UNDER   THE  DEODARS. 

unbridled  tongue,  made  havoc  of  his  plans  ; 
and  he  could  at  least  retaliate  by  hurting  the 
man  in  whose  eyes  he  was  humiliated  and 
shown  dishonorable. 

''  Said  to  her  ?  What  does  a  man  tell  a  lie 
like  that  for?  I  suppose  I  said  pretty  much 
what  you've  said,  unless  I'm  a  good  deal 
mistaken." 

"  I  spoke  the  truth,"  said  Boulte,  again 
more  to  himself  than  Kurrell.  ''  Emma  told 
me  she  hated  me.     She  has  no  right  in  me." 

''  No !  I  suppose  not.  You're  only  her 
husband,  y'know.  And  what  did  Mrs.  Van- 
suythen  say  after  you  had  laid  your  disen- 
gaged heart  at  her  feet  ?  " 

Kurrell  felt  almost  virtuous  as  he  put  the 
question. 

"  I  don't  think  that  matters,"  Boulte  replied  ; 
"  and  it  doesn't  concern  you." 

*'  But  it  does  !  I  tell  you  it  does  "  — began 
Kurrell  shamelessly. 

The  sentence  was  cut  by  a  roar  of  laughter 
from  Boulte's  lips.  Kurrell  was  silent  for  an 
instant,  and  then  he,  too,  laughed  —  laughed 


A    WAYSIDE   COMEDY.  257 

long  and  loudly,  rocking  in  his  saddle.  It 
was  an  unpleasant  sound  —  the  mirthless 
mirth  of  these  men  on  the  long,  white  line  of 
the  Narkarra  Road.  There  were  no  stranp-ers 
in  Kashima,  or  they  might  have  thought  that 
captivity  within  the  Dosehri  hills  had  driven 
half  the  European  population  mad.  The 
laughter  stopped  abruptly.  Kurrell  was  the 
first  to  speak. 

''  Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

Boulte  looked  up  the  road,  and  at  the 
hills.  ''  Nothing,"  said  he  quietly,  "  What's 
the  use  ?  It's  too  ghastly  for  anything.  We 
must  let  the  old  life  go  on.  I  can  only  call 
you  a  hound  and  a  liar,  and  I  can't  go  on 
calling  you  names  forever.  Besides  which, 
I  don't  feel  that  I'm  much  better.  We  can't 
get  out  of  this  place,  y'know.  What  is  there 
to  do?" 

Kurrell  looked  round  the  rat-pit  of  Kashima 
and  made  no  reply.  The  injured  husband 
took  up  the  wondrous  tale. 

'*  Ride  on,  and  speak  to  Emma  if  you 
want  to.  God  knows  /  don't  care  what  you 
do." 


258  UNDER   THE  DEODARS, 

He  walked  forward,  and  left  Kurrell  gazing 
blankly  after  him.  Kurrell  did  not  ride  on 
either  to  see  Mrs.  Boulte  or  Mrs.  Vansuythen. 
He  sat  in  his  saddle  and  thought,  while  his 
pony  grazed  by  the  roadside. 

The  whir  of  approaching  wheels  roused 
him.  Mrs.  Vansuythen  was  driving  home 
Mrs.  Boulte,  white  and  wan,  with  a  cut  on  her 
forehead. 

*'  Stop,  please,"  said  Mrs.  Boulte,  **  I  want 
to  speak  to  Ted." 

Mrs.  Vansuythen  obeyed,  but  as  Mrs. 
Boulte  leaned  forward,  putting  her  hand  upon 
the  splash-board  of  the  dog-cart,  Kurrell 
spoke. 

"  I've  seen  your  husband,  Mrs.  Boulte." 

There  was  no  necessity  for  any  further 
explanation.  The  man's  eyes  were  fixed,  not 
upon  Mrs.  Boulte,  but  her  companion.  Mrs. 
Boulte  saw  the  look. 

''  Speak  to  him  !  "  she  pleaded,  turning  to 
the  woman  at  her  side.  "  Oh,  speak  to 
him !  Tell  him  what  you  told  me  just  now. 
Tell  him  you  hate  him.  Tell  him  you  hate 
him  !  " 


A    WAYSIDE   COMEDY.  259 

She  bent  forward  and  wept  bitterly,  while 
the  sais,  decorously  Impassive,  went  forward 
to  hold  the  horse.  Mrs.  Vansuythen  turned 
scarlet  and  dropped  the  rein.  She  wished  to 
be  no  party  to  such  an  unholy  explanation. 

*'  I've  nothing  to  do  with  It,"  she  began 
coldly ;  but  Mrs.  Boulte's  sobs  overcame 
her,  and  she  addressed  herself  to  the  man. 
*'  I  don't  know  what  I  am  to  say.  Captain 
Kurrell.  I  don't  know  what  I  can  call  you. 
I  think  you've  —  you've  behaved  abominably, 
and  she  has  cut  her  forehead  terribly  against 
the  table." 

*'  It  doesn't  hurt.  It  isn't  anything,"  said 
Mrs.  Boulte  feebly.  "  That  doesn't  matter. 
Tell  him  what  you  told  me.  Say  you  don't 
care  for  him.  Oh  Ted,  wont  you  believe 
her?" 

*'  Mrs.  Boulte  has  made  me  understand 
that  you  were  —  that  you  were  fond  of 
her  once  upon  a  time,"  went  on  Mrs. 
Vansuythen. 

♦*  Well !  "  said  Kurrell  brutally.  "  It  seems 
to  me  that  Mrs.  Boulte  had  better  be  fond  of 
her  own  husband  first." 


26o  UNDER   THE  DEODARS, 

"  Stop  !  "  said  Mrs.  Vansuythen.  "  Hear 
me  first.  I  don't  care  —  I  don't  want  to 
know  anything  about  you  and  Mrs.  Boulte  ; 
but  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  hate  you,  that  I 
think  you  are  a  cur,  and  that  I'll  never,  never 
speak  to  you  again.  Oh,  I  don't  dare  to  say 
what  I  think  of  you,  you  .  .  .  man  !  Sais^ 
gorah  ho  jane  do!' 

*'  I  want  to  speak  to  Ted,"  moaned  Mrs. 
Boulte,  but  the  dog- cart  rattled  on,  and  Kur- 
rell  was  left  on  the  road,  shamed,  and  boiling 
with  wrath  against  Mrs.  Boulte. 

He  waited  till  Mrs.  Vansuythen  was  driving 
back  to  her  own  house,  and,  she  being  freed 
from  the  embarrassment  of  Mrs.  Boulte's 
presence,  learned  for  the  second  time  a  truth- 
ful opinion  of  himself  and  his  actions. 

In  the  evenings,  it  was  the  wont  of  all 
Kashima  to  meet  at  the  platform  on  the  Nar- 
karra  Road,  to  drink  tea,  and  discuss  the 
trivialities  of  the  day.  Major  Vansuythen 
and  his  wife  found  themselves  alone  at  the 
gathering-place  for  almost  the  first  time  in 
their  remembrance  ;    and  the  cheery  Major, 


A    WAYSIDE   COMEDY.  26 1 

in  the  teeth  of  his  wife's  remarkably  reason- 
able suggestion  that  the  rest  of  the  Station 
might  be  sick,  insisted  upon  driving  round 
to  the  two  bungalows  and  unearthing  the 
population. 

"  Sitting  in  the  twilight ! "  said  he,  with 
great  indignation,  to  the  Boultes.  "  That'll 
never  do  !  Hang  it  all,  weVe  one  family 
here  !  You  miisi  come  out,  and  so  must 
Kurrell.     I'll  make  him  bring  his  banjo." 

So  great  is  the  power  of  honest  simplicity 
and  a  good  digestion  over  guilty  consciences 
that  all  Kashima  did  turn  out,  even  down 
to  the  banjo ;  and  the  Major  embraced  the 
company  in  one  expansive  grin.  As  he 
grinned,  Mrs.  Vansuythen  raised  her  eyes  for 
an  instant  and  looked  at  Kashima.  Her 
meaning  was  clear.  Major  Vansuythen  would 
never  know  anything.  He  was  to  be  the 
outsider  in  that  happy  family  whose  cage  was 
the  Dosehri  hills. 

*'  YouVe  singing  villanously  out  of  tune, 
Kurrell,"  said  the  Major,  truthfully.  "  Pass 
me  that  banjo." 


262  UNDER   THE  DEODARS. 

And  he  sang  in  excruciatlng-wise  till  the 
stars  came  out  and  Kashima  went  to  dinner. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  the  New  Life 
of  Kashima  —  the  life  that  Mrs.  Boulte  made 
when  her  tongue  was  loosened  in  the 
twilight. 

Mrs.  Vansuythen  has  never  told  the  Major ; 
and  since  he  insists  upon  the  maintenance  of 
a  burdensome  geniality,  she  has  been  com- 
pelled to  break  her  vow  of  not  speaking  to 
Kurrell.  This  speech,  which  must  of  neces- 
sity preserve  the  semblance  of  politeness  and 
interest,  serves  admirably  to  keep  alight  the 
flame  of  jealousy  and  dull  hatred  in  Boulte's 
bosom,  as  it  awakens  the  same  passions  in 
his  wife's  heart.  Mrs.  Boulte  hates  Mrs. 
Vansuythen  because  she  has  taken  Ted  from 
her,  and,  in  some  curious  fashion,  hates  her 
because  Mrs.  Vansuythen  —  and  here  the 
wife's  eyes  see  far  more  clearly  than  the  hus- 
band's —  detests  Ted.  And  Ted  —  that  gal- 
lant captain  and  honorable  man  —  knows  now 
that  it   is   possible   to   hate   a  woman  once 


A    WAYSIDE   COMEDY,  263 

loved,  even  to  the  verge  of  wishing  to  silence 
her  forever  with  blows.  Above  all,  is  he 
shocked  that  Mrs.  Boulte  cannot  see  the 
error  of  her  ways. 

Boulte  and  he  go  out  tiger-shooting  to- 
gether in  amity  and  all  good  friendship. 
Boulte  has  put  their  relationship  on  a  most 
satisfactory  footing. 

"You're  a  blackguard,"  he  says  to  Kur- 
rell,  "  and  I've  lost  any  self-respect  I  may 
ever  have  had ;  but  when  you're  with  me,  I 
can  feel  certain  that  you  are  not  with  Mrs. 
Vansuythen,  or  making  Emma  miserable." 

Kurrell  endures  anything  that  Boulte  may 
say  to  him.  Sometimes  they  are  away  for 
three  days  together,  and  then  the  Major 
insists  upon  his  wife  going  over  to  sit  with 
Mrs.  Boulte  ;  although  Mrs.  Vansuythen  has 
repeatedly  vowed  that  she  prefers  her  hus- 
band's company  to  any  in  the  world.  From 
the  way  in  which  she  clings  to  him,  she  would 
certainly  appear  to  be  speaking  the  truth. 

But  of  course,  as  the  Major  says,  **  in  a 
little  Station  we  must  all  be  friendly." 


THE   HILL  OF  ILLUSION. 


What  rendered  vain  their  deep  desire  ? 
A  God,  a  God  their  severance  ruled, 
And  bade  between  their  shores  to  be 
The  unplumbed,  salt,  estranging  sea. 

M.  Arnold. 

He.  —  Tell  your  jhampanis  not  to  hurry 
so,  dear.  They  forget  I'm  fresh  from  the 
Plains. 

She.  —  Sure  proof  that  /  have  not  been 
going  out  with  any  one.  Yes,  they  are  an 
untrained  crew.     Where  do  we  go  ? 

He.  —  As  usual  —  to  the  world's  end. 
No,  Jakko. 

She.  —  Have  your  pony  led  after  you,  then. 
It's  a  long  round. 

He.  —  And  for  the  last  time,  thank  Heaven  ! 

She.  —  Do  you  mean  that  still  ?  I  didn't 
dare  to  write  to  you  about  it  .  .  .  all  these 
months. 


THE  HILL  OF  ILLUSION.  26$ 

He. —  Mean  it!  I've  been  shaping  my 
affairs  to  that  end  since  Autumn.  What 
makes  you  speak  as  though  it  had  occurred 
to  you  for  the  first  time  ? 

She.  —  I  ?  Oh  !  I  don't  know.  I've  had 
long  enough  to  think,  too. 

He.  — And  you've  changed  your  mind  ? 

She.  —  No.  You  ought  to  know  that  I  am 
a  miracle  of  constancy.  What  are  your 
—  arranpfements  ? 

He.  —  Ours,  Sweetheart,  please. 

She.  —  Ours,  be  it  then.  My  poor  boy, 
how  the  prickly  heat  has  marked  your  fore- 
head ?  Have  you  ever  tried  sulphate  of 
copper  in  water? 

He.  —  It'll  go  away  in  a  day  or  two  up 
here.  The  arrangements  are  simple  enough. 
Tonga  in  the  early  morning  —  reach  Kalka  at 
twelve — Umballa  at  seven  —  down,  straight 
by  night-train,  to  Bombay,  and  then  the 
steamer  of  the  21st  for  Rome.  That's  my 
idea.  The  Continent  and  Sweden  —  a  ten- 
week  honeymoon. 

She.  —  Ssh  !     Don't  talk  of  it  in  that  way. 


266  UNDER    THE   DEODARS. 

It  makes  me  afraid.  Guy,  how  long  have 
we  two  been  insane  ? 

He.  —  Seven  months  and  fourteen  days, 
I  forget  the  odd  hours  exactly,  but  I'll  think. 

She.  —  I  only  wanted  to  see  if  you  remem- 
bered. Who  are  those  two  on  the  Blessing- 
ton  Road  ? 

He.  —  Eabrey  and  the  Penner  woman. 
What  do  they  matter  to  usf  Tell  me  every- 
thing that  you've  been  doing  and  saying  and 
thinking. 

She.  —  Doing  little,  saying  less,  and  think- 
ing a  great  deal.     I've  hardly  been  out  at  all. 

He.  —  That  was  wrong  of  you.  You 
haven't  been  moping  ? 

She.  —  Not  very  much.  Can  you  wonder 
that  I'm  disinclined  for  amusement  ? 

He.  —  Frankly,  I  do.  Where  was  the  dif- 
ficulty ? 

She.  —  In  this  only.  The  more  people  I 
know  and  the  more  I'm  known  here,  the 
wider  spread  will  be  the  news  of  the  crash 
when  it  comes.     I  don't  like  that. 

He.  —  Nonsense.     We  shall  be  out  of  it. 

She.  —  You  think  so  ? 


THE  HILL   OF  ILLUSION,  267 

He.  —  I'm  sure  of  it,  if  there  is  any  power 
in  steam  or  horse-flesh  to  carry  us  away. 
Ha!  ha! 

She.  — And  they^;^  of  the  situation  comes 
in  —  where,  my  Lancelot? 

He.  —  Nowhere,  Guinevere.  I  was  only 
thinking  of  something. 

She.  —  They  say  men  have  a  keener  sense 
of  humor  than  women.  Now  /  was  thinking 
of  the  scandal. 

He.  —  Don't  think  of  anything  so  ugly. 
We  shall  be  beyond  it. 

She.  —  It  will  be  there  all  the  same  —  in  the 
mouths  of  Simla  —  telegraphed  over  India, 
and  talked  of  at  the  dinners  —  and  when  He 
goes  out  they  will  stare  at  Him  to  see  how 
He  takes  it.  And  we  shall  be  dead,  Guy 
dear — dead  and  cast  into  the  outer  darkness 
where  there  is  — 

He.  —  Love  at  least.     Isn't  that  enough  ? 

She.  —  I  have  said  so. 

He.  — And  you  think  so  still  ? 

She.  —  What  do  you  think  ? 

He.  —  What  have  I  done  ?     It  means  equal 


268  UNDER   THE  DEODARS. 

ruin  to  me,  as  the  world  reckons  it  —  out- 
casting,  the  loss  of  my  appointment,  the 
breaking  off  my  life's  work.      I  pay  my  price. 

She.  —  And  are  you  so  much  above  the 
world  that  you  can  afford  to  pay  it.     Am  I  ? 

He.  —  My  Divinity  - —  what  else  ? 

She.  —  A  very  ordinary  woman  I'm  afraid, 
but,  so  far,  respectable.  How  d'you  do,  Mrs. 
Middleditch  ?  Your  husband  ?  I  think  he's 
riding  down  to  Annandale  with  Colonel 
Statters,  Yes,  isn't  it  divine  after  the  rain  ? 
.  .  .  Guy,  how  long  am  I  to  be  allowed  to 
bow  to  Mrs.  Middleditch  ?     Till  the  17th  ? 

He,  —  Frowsy  Scotchwoman  !  What  is 
the  use  of  bringing  her  into  the  discussion  ? 
You  were  saying  ? 

She.  —  Nothing.  Have  you  ever  seen  a 
man  hanged  ? 

He.  —  Yes.     Once. 

She.  —  What  was  it  for  ? 

He.  —  Murder,  of  course. 

She.  —  Murder.  Is  that  so  great  a  sin 
after  all  ?  I  wonder  how  he  felt  before  the 
drop  fell. 


THE  HILL   OF  ILLUSION.  269 

He.  —  I  don't  think  he  felt  much.  What  a 
gruesome  little  woman  It  Is  this  evening ! 
You're  shivering.     Put  on  your  cape,  dear. 

She.  —  I  think  I  will.  Oh  !  Look  at  the 
mist  coming  over  Sanjaoll ;  and  I  thought  we 
should  have  sunshine  on  the  Ladles'  Mile ! 
Let's  turn  back. 

He.  —  What's  the  good  ?  There's  a  cloud 
on  Elysium  Hill,  and  that  means  It's  foggy 
all  down  the  Mall.  We'll  go  on.  It'll  blow 
away  before  we  get  to  the  Convent,  perhaps. 
'Jove  !     It  is  chilly. 

She.  —  You  feel  It,  fresh  from  below. 
Put  on  your  ulster.  What  do  you  think  of 
my  cape  ? 

He.  —  Never  ask  a  man  his  opinion  of  a 
woman's  dress  when  he  Is  desperately  and 
abjectly  In  love  with  the  wearer.  Let  me 
look.  Like  everything  else  of  yours  it's  per- 
fect.    Where  did  you  get  It  from  ? 

She.  —  He  gave  it  me,  on  Wednesday 
.  .  .  our  wedding-day,  you  know. 

He.  —  The  Deuce  He  did  !  He's  grow- 
ing  generous  in   his   old   age.     D'you   like 


270  UNDER   THE  DEODARS. 

all  that  frilly,  bunchy  stuff  at  the  throat?     I 
don't. 

She.  —  Don't  you  ? 

**  Kind  Sir,  o'  your  courtesy, 
As  you  go  by  the  town,  Sir, 
'Pray  you  o'  your  love  for  me, 
Buy  me  a  russet  gown,  Sir." 

He.  —  I  won't  say  :  —  "■  Keek  Into  the 
draw-well  Janet,  Janet."  Only  wait  a  little, 
darling,  and  you  shall  be  stocked  with  russet 
gowns  and  everything  else. 

She.  —  And  when  the  frocks  wear  out, 
you'll  get  me  new  ones  .  .  .  and  everything 
else  ? 

He. — Assuredly. 

She.  —  I  wonder  ! 

He.  —  Look  here.  Sweetheart,  I  didn't 
spend  two  days  and  two  nights  in  the  train  to 
hear  you  wonder.  I  thought  we'd  settled  all 
that  at  Shaifazehat. 

She  (dreamily) .  —  At  Shaifazehat  ?  Does 
the  Station  go  on  still  ?  That  was  ages  and 
ages  ago.     It  must  be  crumbling  to  pieces. 


THE  HILL   OF  ILLUSION,  2/1 

All  except  the  Amirtollah  kutcha  road.  I 
don't  believe  that  could  crumble  till  the  Day 
of  Judgment. 

He.  —  You  think  so?  What  is  the  mood 
now  ? 

She.  —  I  can't  tell.  How  cold  it  is  !  Let 
us  get  on  quickly. 

He.  —  'Better  walk  a  little.  Stop  your 
jhampanis  and  get  out.  What's  the  matter 
with  you  this  evening,  dear  ? 

She. —  Nothing.  You  must  grow  accus- 
tomed to  my  ways.  If  I'm  boring  you  I  can 
go  home.  Here's  Captain  Congleton  coming, 
I  dare  say  he'll  be  willing  to  escort  me. 

He.  —  Goose  !  Between  us,  too  !  Damn 
Captain  Congleton.     There ! 

She.  —  Chivalrous  Knight.  Is  it  your 
habit  to  swear  much  in  talking?  It  jars  a 
little,  and  you  might  swear  at  me. 

He.  —  My  angel !  I  didn't  know  what  I 
was  saying  ;  and  you  changed  so  quickly  that 
I  couldn't  follow.  I'll  apologize  in  dust  and 
ashes. 

She.  —  Spare  those.     There'll  be  enough 


2/2  UNDER    THE   DEODARS. 

of  them  later  on.  —  Good-night,  Captain 
Congleton.  Going  to  the  singlng-quadrilles 
already  ?  What  dances  am  I  giving  you  next 
week  ?  No  !  You  must  have  written  them 
down  wrong.  Five  and  Seven,  /  said.  If 
you've  made  a  mistake,  I  certainly  don't 
Intend  to  suffer  for  it.  You  must  alter  your 
programme. 

He.  —  I  thought  you  told  me  that  you  had 
not  been  going  out  much  this  season  ? 

She.  — Quite  true,  but  when  I  do  I  dance 
with  Captain  Congleton.  He  dances  very 
nicely. 

He.  —  And  sit  out  with  him  I  suppose  ? 

She.  —  Yes.  Have  you  any  objection? 
Shall  I  stand  under  the  chandelier  in  future  ? 

He.  — What  does  he  talk  to  you  about  ? 

She.  —  What  do  men  talk  about  when  they 
sit  out  ? 

He.  — Ugh!  Don't!  Well  now  Fm  up, 
you  must  dispense  with  the  fascinating 
Congleton  for  a  while.     I  don't  like  him. 

She  (after  a  pause) .  —  Do  you  know 
what  you  have  said  ? 


THE  HILL   OF  ILLUSION.  273 

He.  —  'Can't  say  that  I  do  exactly.  Tm 
not  In  the  best  of  tempers. 

She.  —  So  I  see  .  .  .  and  feel.  My  true 
and  faithful  lover,  where  Is  your  "  eternal 
constancy,"  "  unalterable  trust,"  and  "  rev- 
erent devotion  "  ?  1  remember  those  phrases  ; 
you  seem  to  have  forgotten  them.  I  mention 
a  man's  name  — 

He.  —  A  good  deal  more  than  that. 

She.  —  Well,  speak  to  him  about  a  dance 
—  perhaps  the  last  dance  that  I  shall  ever 
dance  in  my  life  before  I  .  .  .  before  I  go 
away ;  and  you  at  once  distrust  and  insult  me. 

He.  —  I  never  said  a  word. 

She.  —  How  much  did  you  imply  ?  Guy, 
is  this  amount  of  confidence  to  be  our  stock 
to  start  the  new  life  on  ? 

He.  —  No,  of  course  not.  I  didn't  mean 
that.  On  my  word  and  honor,  I  didn't  Let 
it  pass,  dear.     Please  let  it  pass. 

She. —This  once  —  yes — and  a  second 
time,  and  again  and  again,  all  through  the 
years  when  I  shall  be  unable  to  resent  it. 
You  want  too  much,  my  Lancelot,  and  .  .  . 
you  know  too  much. 


274  UNDER   THE  DEODARS. 

He.  —  How  do  you  mean  ? 

She.  —  That  Is  a  part  of  the  punishment. 
There  cannot  be  perfect  trust  between  us. 

He.  —  In  Heaven's,  name,  why  not  ? 

She.  —  Hush  !  The  Other  Place  is  quite 
enough.     Ask  yourself. 

He.  —  I  don't  follow. 

She. —  You  trust  me  so  implicitly  that 
when  I  look  at  another  man  .  .  .  Never 
mind.  Guy.  Have  you  ever  made  love  to  a 
girl  —  a  good  girl  ? 

He.  —  Something  of  the  sort.  Centuries 
ago  —  in  the  Dark  Ages,  before  I  ever  met 
you,  dear. 

She.  —  Tell  me  what  you  said  to  her. 

He.  —  What  does  a  man  say  to  a  girl  ? 
I've  forgotten. 

She.  —  /  remember.  He  tells  her  that  he 
trusts  her  and  worships  the  ground  she 
walks  on,  and  that  he'll  love  and  honor  and 
protect  her  till  her  dying  day  ;  and  so  she 
marries  in  that  belief.  At  least,  I  speak  of 
one  girl  who  was  not  protected. 

He.  —  Well,  and  then  ? 


THE  HILL   OF  ILLUSION.  275 

She.  —  And  then,  Guy,  and  then,  that  girl 
needs  ten  times  the  love  and  trust  and  honor 
—  yes,  honor — that  was  enough  when  she 
was  only  a  mere  wife  if —  if —  the  second  life 
she  elects  to  lead  is  to  be  made  even  bear- 
able.    Do  you  understand  ? 

He.  —  Even  bearable  !     It'll  be  Paradise. 

She.  —  Ah!  Can  you  give  me  all  I've 
asked  for  —  not  now,  nor  a  few  months  later, 
but  when  you  begin  to  think  of  what  you 
might  have  done  if  you  had  kept  your  own 
appointment  and  your  caste  here  —  when  you 
begin  to  look  upon  me  as  a  drag  and  a  burden  ? 
I  shall  want  it  most  then,  Guy,  for  there  will 
be  no  one  in  the  wide  world  but  you. 

He.  —  You're  a  little  over-tired  to-night, 
Sweetheart,  and  you're  taking  a  stage  view  of 
the  situation.  After  the  necessary  business 
in  the  Courts,  the  road  is  clear  to — 

She.  —  *'  The  holy  state  of  matrimony  !  " 
Ha!  ha!  ha! 

He.  —  Ssh  1  Don't  laugh  in  that  horrible 
way! 

She.  —  I  —  I-c-c-c-can't  help   it!     Isn't  it 


2/6  UNDER    THE  DEODARS, 

too  absurd  !  Ah  !  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Guy  stop 
me  quick  or  I  shall  —  1-1-laugh  till  we  get  to 
the  Church. 

He.  —  For  goodness  sake,  stop  !  Don't 
make  an  exhibition  of  yourself.  What  is  the 
matter  with  you  ? 

She.  —  N-nothing.     I'm  better  now. 

He. — That's  all  right.  One  moment, 
dear.  There's  a  little  wisp  of  hair  got  loose 
from  behind  your  right  ear  and  it's  straggling 
over  your  cheek.     So  ! 

She.  —  Thank'oo.  I'm  'fraid  my  hat's  on 
one  side,  too. 

He.  —  What  do  you  wear  these  huge 
dagger  bonnet-skewers  for?  They're  big 
enough  to  kill  a  man  with. 

She.  —  Oh !  Don't  kill  me,  though. 
You're  sticking  it  into  my  head !  Let  me  do 
it.     You  men  are  so  clumsy. 

He.  —  Have  you  had  many  opportunities 
of  comparing  us  —  in  this  sort  of  work  ? 

She.  —  Guy,  what  is  my  name  ? 

He.  — Eh  !     I  don't  follow. 

She.  —  Here's  my  card-case.  Can  you 
read  ? 


THE  HILL   OF  ILLUSION.  2'J'J 

He.  —  Yes.     Well  ? 

She.  —  Well,  that  answers  your  question. 
You  know  the  other  man's  name.  Am  I 
sufficiently  humbled,  or  would  you  like  to 
ask  me  if  there  is  any  one  else  ? 

He.  —  I  see  now.  My  darling,  I  never 
meant  that  for  an  instant.  I  was  only  joking. 
There !  Lucky  there's  no  one  on  the  road. 
They'd  be  scandalized. 

She.  —  They'll  be  more  scandalized  before 
the  end. 

He.  —  Do-on*t !  I  don't  like  you  to  talk 
in  that  way. 

She.  —  Unreasonable  man  !  Who  asked 
me  to  face  the  situation  and  accept  it?  — 
Tell  me,  do  I  look  like  Mrs.  Penner?  Do  I 
look  like  a  naughty  woman  !  Swear  I  don't? 
Give  me  your  word  of  honor,  my  honorable 
friend,  that  I'm  not  like  Mrs.  Buzgago. 
That's  the  way  she  stands,  with  her  hands 
clasped  at  the  back  of  her  head.  D'you 
like  that  ?     " 

He.  —  Don't  be  affected. 

She.  —  I'm  not,  I'm  Mrs.  Buzgago.  Lis- 
ten ! 


278  UNDER   THE  DEODARS, 

<'  Pendant  une  anne'  toute  entiere. 
Le  regiment  n'a  pas  r'paru. 
Au  Ministere  de  la  Guerre 
On  le  r'porta  comme  perdu. 

On  se  r'noncait  a  r'trouver  sa  trace, 
Quand  un  matin  subitement, 
On  le  vit  r'paraitre  sur  la  place, 
L'  Colonel  toujours  en  avant." 

That's  the  way  she  rolls  her  r's.  Am  I 
like  her  ? 

He.  —  No,  but  I  object  when  you  go  on 
like  an  actress  and  sing  stuff  of  that  kind. 
Where  in  the  world  did  you  pick  up  the 
Chanson  du  Colonel?  It  isn't  a  drawing- 
room  song.     It  isn't  proper. 

She.  —  Mrs.  Buzgago  taught  it  me.  She 
is  both  drawing-room  and  proper,  and  in  an- 
other month  she'll  shut  her  drawing-room  to 
me,  and,  thank  God,  she  isn't  as  improper  as  I 
am.  Oh  Guy,  Guy !  I  wish  I  was  like  some 
women  and  had  no  scruples  about  —  what  is 
it  Keene  says  ?  —  '*  Wearing  a  corpse's  hair 
and  being  false  to  the  bread  they  eat." 

He.  —  I  am  only  a  man  of  limited  intelli- 
gence,   and,    just     now,    very     bewildered. 


THE  HILL  OF  ILLUSION.  279 

When  you  have  quite  finished  flashing 
through  all  your  moods  tell  me,  and  I'll  try 
to  understand  the  last  one. 

She.  —  Moods,  Guy  !  I  haven't  any.  I'm 
sixteen  years  old  and  you're  just  twenty,  and 
you've  been  waiting  for  two  hours  outside 
the  school  in  the  cold.  And  now  I've  met 
you,  and  now  we're  walking  home  together. 
Does  that  suit  you,  My  Imperial  Majesty? 

He.  —  No.  We  aren't  children.  Why 
can't  you  be  rational  ? 

She.  —  He  asks  me  that  when  I'm  going 
to  commit  social  suicide  for  his  sake,  and, 
and  ...  I  don't  want  to  be  French  and  rave 
about  ''  ma  mere,''  but  have  I  ever  told  you 
that  I  have  a  mother,  and  a  brother  who  was 
my  pet  before  I  married  ?  He's  married  now. 
Can't  you  imagine  the  pleasure  that  the  news 
of  the  elopement  will  give  him  ?  Have  you 
any  people  at  Home,  Guy,  to  be  pleased 
with  your  performances  ? 

He.  —  One  or  two.  We  can*t  make 
omelets  without  breaking  eggs. 

Sn^  {slowly),  —  I  don't  see  the  necessity — 


280  UNDER    THE   DEODARS. 

He.  —  Hah  !     What  do  you  mean  ? 

She.  —  Shall  I  speak  the  truth  ? 

He.  —  Under  the  circumstances,  perhaps 
it  would  be  as  well. 

She.  —  Guy,  I'm  afraid. 

He.  —  I  thought  we'd  settled  all  that. 
What  of? 

She.  —  Of  you. 

He.  —  Oh,  damn  it  all !  The  old  business  ! 
This  is  too  bad ! 

She.  —  Of  you. 

He.  —  And  what  now  ? 

She.  —  What  do  you  think  of  me  ? 

He.  —  Beside  the  question  altogether. 
What  do  you  intend  to  do  ? 

She.  —  I  daren't  risk  it.  I'm  afraid.  If  I 
could  only  cheat  .  .  . 

He.  —  A  la  Buz g ago  ?  No,  thanks. 
That's  the  one  point  on  which  I  have  any 
notion  of  Honor.  I  won't  eat  his  salt  and 
steal  too.     I'll  loot  openly  or  not  at  all. 

She.  —  I  never  meant  anything  else. 

He.  —  Then,  why  in  the  world  do  you 
pretend  not  to  be  willing  to  come  ? 


THE  HILL   OF  ILLUSION,  28 1 

She.  —  It's  not  pretence,  Guy.  I  am 
afraid. 

He.  —  Please  explain. 

She.  —  It  can't  last,  Guy.  It  can't  last. 
You'll  get  angry,  and  then  you'll  swear,  and 
then  you'll  get  jealous,  and  then  you'll 
mistrust  me  —  you  do  now  —  and  you  your- 
self will  be  the  best  reason  for  doubting. 
And  I  —  what  shall  /  do  ?  I  shall  be  no 
better  than  Mrs.  Buzgago  found  out  —  no 
better  than  any  one.  And  you'll  know  that. 
Oh  Guy,  can't  you  see  f 

He.  —  I  see  that  you  are  desperately 
unreasonable,  little  woman. 

She. — There!  The  moment  I  begin  to 
object,  you  get  angry.  What  will  you  do 
when  I  am  only  your  property  —  stolen 
property  ?  It  can't  be,  Guy.  It  can't  be  ! 
I  thought  it  could,  but  it  cant.  You'll  get 
tired  of  me. 

He.  —  I  tell  you  I  shall  7iot,  Won't  any- 
thing make  you  understand  that  ? 

She.  —  There,  can't  you  see?  If  you 
speak   to  me  like  that  now,  you'll   call   me 


2S2  UNDER   THE  DEODARS. 

horrible  names  later,  if  I  don't  do  everything 
as  you  like.  And  if  you  were  cruel  to  me, 
Guy,  where  should  I  go  —  where  should  I  go  ? 
I  can't  trust  you.     Oh  !  I  caiit  trust  you  ! 

He.  —  I  suppose  I  ought  to  say  that  I  can 
trust  you.     I've  ample  reason. 

She.  —  Please  don't,  dear.  It  hurts  as 
much  as  if  you  hit  me. 

He.  —  It  isn't  exactly  pleasant  for  me. 

She.  —  I  can't  help  it.  I  wish  I  were 
dead !  I  can't  trust  you,  and  I  don't  trust 
myself.  Oh  Guy,  let  it  die  away  and  be 
forgotten ! 

He. — Too  late  now.  I  don't  understand 
you  —  I  won't  —  and  I  can't  trust  myself  to 
talk  this  evening.     May  I  call  to-morrow  ? 

She.  —  Yes.  No !  Oh,  give  me  time  ! 
The  day  after.  I  get  into  my  'rickshaw  here 
and  meet  Him  at  Peliti's.     You  ride. 

He.  —  I'll  go  on  to  Peliti's  too.  I  think  I 
want  a  drink.  My  world's  knocked  about 
my  ears  and  the  stars  are  falling.  Who  are 
those  brutes  howling  in  the  Old  Library  ? 

She.  —  They're    rehearsing   the    singing- 


THE  HILL  OF  ILLUSION,  283 

quadrilles  for  the  Fancy  Ball.  Can't  you 
hear  Mrs.  Buzgago's  voice?  She  has  a  solo. 
It's  quite  a  new  idea.     Listen  ! 

Mrs.  Buzgago  {in  the  Old  Library,  con, 
molt,  exp.^,  ^ 

"  See  saw  !   Margery  Daw  ! 
Sold  her  bed  to  lie  upon  straw. 
Wasn't  she  a  silly  slut 
To  sell  her  bed  and  lie  upon  dirt  ? " 

Captain  Congleton,  I'm  going  to  alter  that 
to  "  flirt."     It  sounds  better. 

He.  —  No,  I've  changed  my  mind  about 
the  drink.  Good- night,  little  lady.  I  shall 
see  you  to-morrow  ? 

She.  —  Ye — es.  Good-night,  Guy.  Dont 
be  angry  with  me. 

He.  —  Angry  !  You  ktiow  I  trust  you  abso- 
lutely.     Good-night  and  —  God  bless  you! 

( Three  seconds  later.  Solus.)  Hmm ! 
I'd  give  something  to  discover  whether 
there's  another  man  at  the  back  of  all  this. 


A  SECOND-RATE  WOMAN. 


Est  fuga^  volvitur  rota, 

On  we  drift :  where  looms  the  dim  port? 
One  Two  Three  Four  Five  contribute  their  quota: 

Something  is  gained  if  one  caught  but  the  import, 
Show  it  us,  Hugues  of  Saxe-Gotha. 

Master  Hugues  of  Saxe-Gotha, 

"  Dressed  !  Don't  tell  me  that  woman 
ever  dressed  in  her  life.  She  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  while  her  ayah  —  no,  her 
husband —  it  must  have  been  a  man  —  threw 
her  clothes  at  her.  She  then  did  her  hair 
with  her  fingers,  and  rubbed  her  bonnet  in 
the  flue  under  the  bed.  I  know  she  did,  as 
well  as  if  I  had  assisted  at  the  orgie.  Who 
is  she  ? "  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee. 

''  Don't !  "  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  feebly. 
''  You  make  my  head  ache.  I'm  miserable 
to-day.     Stay  me  with  fondants,  comfort  me 


A   SECOND-RATE    WOMAN.  285 

With  chocolates,  for  I  am  .  .  .  Did  you  bring 
anything  from  PeHtl's  ?  " 

*'  Questions  to  begin  with.  You  shall  have 
the  sweets  when  you  have  answered  them. 
Who  and  what  is  the  creature  ?  There  were 
at  least  half  a  dozen  men  round  her,  and  she 
appeared  to  be  going  to  sleep  in  their  midst. 

'^  Delville,"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  '* 'Shady' 
Delville,  to  distinguish  her  from  Mrs.  Jim  of 
that  ilk.  She  dances  as  untidily  as  she 
dresses,  1  believe,  and  her  husband  is  some- 
where in  Madras.  Go  and  call,  if  you  are 
so  interested." 

''  What  have  I  to  do  with  Shigramitish 
women  ?  She  merely  caught  my  attention 
for  a  minute,  and  I  wondered  at  the  attraction 
that  a  dowd  has  for  a  certain  type  of  man. 
I  expected  to  see  her  walk  out  of  her  clothes 
—  until  I  looked  at  her  eyes." 

**  Hooks  and  eyes,  surely,"  drawled  Mrs. 
Mallowe. 

"  Don't  be  clever,  Polly.  You  make  my 
head  ache.  And  round  this  hayrick  stood  a 
crowd  of  men  —  a  positive  crowd  !  " 


286  UNDER    THE  DEODARS, 

''  Perhaps  they  also  expected  "  — 

'*  Polly,  don't  be  Rabelaisian  !  " 

Mrs.  Mallowe  curled  herself  up  comfort- 
ably on  the  sofa,  and  turned  her  attention  to 
the  sweets.  She  and  Mrs.  Hauksbee  shared 
the  same  house  at  Simla  ;  and  these  things 
befell  two  seasons  after  the  matter  of  Otis 
Yeere,  which  has  been  already  recorded. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  stepped  into  the  veranda 
and  looked  down  upon  the  Mall,  her  forehead 
puckered  with  thought. 

"Hah!",  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  shortly. 
''  Indeed  !  " 

''What  is  It?"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe  sleepily. 

'*  That  dowd  and  The  Dancing  Master  — 
to  whom  I  object." 

"  Why  to  The  Dancing  Master  ?  .  He  is  a 
middle-aged  gentleman,  of  reprobate  and 
romantic  tendencies,  and  tries  to  be  a  friend 
of  mine." 

"  Then  make  up  your  mind  to  lose  him. 
Dowds  cling  by  nature,  and  I  should  imagine 
that  this  animal  —  how  terrible  her  bonnet 
looks  from  above  !  —  Is  specially  clingsome." 


A   SECOND-RATE    WOMAN,  287 

"  She  Is  welcome  to  The  Dancing  Master 
so  far  as  I  am  concerned.  I  never  could 
take  an  interest  in  a  monotonous  liar.  .  The 
frustrated  aim  of  his  life  is  to  persuade  people 
that  he  Is  a  bachelor." 

''  O-oh  !  I  think  I've  met  that  sort  of  man 
before.     And  isn't  he  ?  " 

"  No.  He  confided  that  to  me  a  few  days 
ago.     Ugh  !     Some  men  ought  to  be  killed." 

''  What  happened  then  ?  " 

*' He  posed  as  the  horror  of  horrors  —  a 
misunderstood  man.  Heaven  knows  the 
femme  inconiprise  is  sad  enough  and  bad 
enough  —  but  the  other  thing  !  " 

*' And  so  fat  too  !  /should  have  laughed 
in  his  face.  Men  seldom  confide  in  me. 
How  is  it  they  come  to  you  ? " 

''  For  the  sake  of  impressing  me  with  their 
careers  In  the  past.  Protect  me  from  men 
with  confidences  !  " 

"  And  yet  you  encourage  them?" 

*'  What  can  I  do  ?  They  talk,  I  listen, 
and  they  vow  that  I  am  sympathetic.  I 
know    I    always   profess   astonishment  even 


288  UNDER    THE  DEODARS. 

when  the  plot  is  —  of  the  most  old  possible." 

"  Yes.  Men  are  so  unblushlngly  explicit 
if  they  are  once  allowed  to  talk,  whereas 
women's  confidences  are  full  of  reservations 
and  fibs,  except  "  — 

"  When  they  go  mad  and  babble  of  the 
Unutterabilities  after  a  week's  acquaintance. 
Even  then,  they  always  paint  themselves  a  la 
Mrs.  Gummidge  —  throwing  cold  water  on 
him.  Really,  if  you  come  to  consider,  we 
know  a  great  deal  more  of  men  than  of  our 
own  sex." 

"  And  the  extraordinary  thing  is  that  men 
will  never  believe  it.  They  say  we  are  trying 
to  hide  something." 

"They  are  generally  doing  that  on  their 
own  account  —  and  very  clumsily  they  hide. 
Alas !  These  chocolates  pall  upon  me,  and  I 
haven't  eaten  more  than  a  dozen.  I  think 
I  shall  go  to  sleep." 

"  Then  you'll  get  fat,  dear.  If  you  took 
more  exercise  and  a  more  intelligent  interest 
in  your  neighbors  you  would  "  — 

*'  Be  as  universally  loved  as  Mrs.  Hauksbee. 


A   SECOND-RATE    IVOMAA'.  289 

You're  a  darling  in  many  ways  and  I  like  you 

—  you  are  not  a  woman's  woman  —  but  wAy 
do  you  trouble  yourself  about  mere  human 
beings  ?  " 

"  Because  In  the  absence  of  angels,  who  I 
am  sure  would  be  horribly  dull,  men  and 
women  are  the  most  fascinating  things  in  the 
whole  wide  world,  lazy  one.  I  am  interested 
in  The  Dowd  —  I  am  interested  in  The 
Dancing  Master — I  am  interested  In  the 
Hawley  Boy  —  and  I  am  Interested  In  you.'' 

"  Why  couple  me  with  the  Hawley  Boy  ? 
He  Is  your  property." 

''  Yes,  and  in  his  own  guileless  speech,  I'm 
making  a  good  thing  out  of  him.  When  he 
is  slightly  more  reformed,  and  has  passed  his 
Higher  Standard,  or  whatever  the  authorities 
think  fit  to  exact  from  him,  I  shall  select  a 
pretty  little  girl,  the  Holt  girl,  I  think,  and" 

—  here  she  waved  her  hands  airily  —  "  *  whom 
Mrs.  Hauksbee  hath  joined  together  let  no 
man  put  asunder.*     That's  all." 

''  And  when  you  have  yoked  May  Holt 
with  the  most  notorious  detrimental  in  Simla, 


290  UNDER   THE  DEODARS. 

and  earned  the  undying  hatred  of  Mamma 
Holt,  what  will  you  do  with  me,  Dispenser 
of  the  Destinies  of  the  Universe  ?  " 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  dropped  Into  a  low  chair 
in  front  of  the  fire,  and,  chin  In  hand,  gazed 
long  and  steadfastly  at  Mrs.  Mallowe. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  said,  shaking  her 
head,  "  what  I  shall  do  with  you,  dear.  It's 
obviously  Impossible  to  marry  you  to  some  one 
else  —  your  husband  would  object  and  the 
experiment  might  not  be  successful  after  all. 
I  think  I  shall  begin  by  preventing  you  from 
—  what  is  it?  —  'sleeping  on  ale-house 
benches  and  snoring  In  the  sun.'" 

''  Don't !  I  don't  like  your  quotations. 
They  are  so  rude.  Go  to  the  Library  and 
bring  me  new  books." 

"  While  you  sleep  ?  No  !  If  you  don't 
come  with  me,  I  shall  spread  your  newest 
frock  on  my  'rtckshazv-ho\N,  and  when  any 
one  asks  me  what  I  am  doing,  I  shall  say  that 
I  am  going  to  Phelps's  to  get  it  let  out.  I 
shall  take  care  that  Mrs.  MacNamara  sees  me. 
Put  your  things  on,  there's  a  good  girl." 


A    SECOND-RATE    WOMAN.  29 1 

Mrs.  Mallowe  groaned  and  obeyed,  and  the 
two  went  off  to  the  Library,  where  they  found 
Mrs.  Delville  and  the  man  who  went  by  the 
nickname  of  The  Dancing  Master.  By  that 
time  Mrs.  Mallowe  was  awake  and  eloquent. 

*'  That  is  the  Creature  !  "  said  Mrs.  Hauks- 
bee,  with  the  air  of  one  pointing  out  a  slug 
in  the  road. 

**  No,"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe.  ''  The  man  is 
the  Creature.  Ugh !  Good-evening,  Mr. 
Bent.  I  thought  you  were  coming  to  tea 
this  evening." 

''  Surely  it  was  for  to-morrow,  was  it 
not?"  answered  The  Dancing  Master.  *' I 
understood  ...  I  fancied  .  .  .  I'm  so  sorry 
.  .  .   How  very  unfortunate  !  ".  .  . 

But  Mrs.  Mallowe  had  passed  on. 

''  For  the  practised  equivocator  you  said  he 
was,"  murmured  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  ''  he  strikes 
me  as  a  failure.  Now  wherefore  should  he 
have  preferred  a  walk  with  The  Dowd  to  tea 
with  us  ?  Elective  affinities,  I  suppose  — 
both  grubby.  Polly,  I'd  never  forgive  that 
woman  as  long  as  the  world  rolls." 


292  UNDER   THE  DEODARS. 

*'  I  forgive  every  woman  everything,"  said 
Mrs.  Mallowe.  "  He  will  be  a  sufficient  pun- 
ishment for  her.  What  a  common  voice  she 
has ! " 

Mrs.  Delville's  voice  was  not  pretty,  her 
carriage  was  even  less  lovely,  and  her 
raiment  was  strikingly  neglected.  All  these 
facts  Mrs.  Mallowe  absorbed  over  the  top  of 
a  magazine. 

"  Now  what  is  there  in  her  ? "  said  Mrs. 
Hauksbee.  ''  Do  you  see  what  I  meant 
about  the  clothes  falling  off?  If  I  were  a 
man  I  would  perish  sooner  than  be  seen 
with  that  rag-bag.  And  yet,  she  has  good 
eyes,  but — Oh!  " 

"What  is  it?" 

"  She  doesn't  know  how  to  use  them ! 
On  my  Honor,  she  does  not.  Look  !  Oh 
look !  Untidiness  I  can  endure,  but  igno- 
rance never !     The  woman's  a  fool." 

"  Hsh  !     She'll  hear  you." 

*' All  the  women  in  Simla  are  fools.  She'll 
think  I  mean  some  one  else.  Now  she's 
going   out.     What   a   thoroughly  objection- 


A   SECOND-RATE   IVOJfAJV.  293 

able  couple  sHe  and  The  Dancing  Master 
make  !  Which  reminds  me.  Do  you  sup- 
pose they'll  ever  dance  together  ?  " 

'*  Wait  and  see.  I  don't  envy  her  the  con- 
versation of  The  Dancing  master  —  loathly 
man  !  His  wife  ought  to  be  up  here  before 
long?" 

''  Do  you  know  anything  about  him  ?  '* 

**  Only  what  he  told  me.  It  may  be  all  a 
fiction.  He  married  a  girl  bred  in  the  coun- 
try, I  think,  and,  being  an  honorable,  chival- 
rous soul,  told  me  that  he  repented  his  bar- 
gain and  sent  her  to  her  mother  as  often  as 
possible  —  a  person  who  has  lived  in  the 
Doon  since  the  memory  of  man  and  goes  to 
Mussoorie  when  other  people  go  Home. 
The  wife  is  with  her  at  present.  So  he 
says." 

''Babies?" 

"  One  only,  but  he  talks  of  his  wife  in  a 
revolting  way.  I  hated  him  for  it.  //e 
thought  he  was  being  epigrammatic  and 
bijlliant." 

''  That  is  a  vice  peculiar  to   men.     I  dis- 


294  UNDER   THE  DEODARS, 

like  him  because  he  is  generally  In  the  wake 
of  some  girl,  to  the  disgust  of  the  Eliglbles. 
He  will  persecute  May  Holt  no  more,  unless 
I  am  much  mistaken." 

*'  No.  I  think  Mrs.  Delville  may  occupy 
his  attention  for  a  while. 

*'  Do  you  suppose  she  knows  that  he  Is 
the  head  of  a  family .?  " 

*'  Not  from  his  lips.  He  swore  me  to 
eternal  secrecy.  Wherefore  I  tell  you. 
Don't  you  know  that  type  of  man  ?  " 

''  Not  intimately,  thank  goodness !  As  a 
general  rule,  when  a  man  begins  to  abuse 
his  wife  to  me,  I  find  that  the  Lord  gives  me 
wherewith  to  answer  him  according  to  his 
folly ;  and  we  part  with  a  coolness  between 
us.     I  laugh." 

''  I'm  different.     I've  no  sense  of  humor." 

''  Cultivate  it,  then.  It  has  been  my 
mainstay  for  more  years  than  I  care  to  think 
about.  A  well-educated  sense  of  Humor 
will  save  a  woman  when  Religion,  Training, 
and  Home  influences  fail.  And  we  may^all 
need  salvation  sometimes." 


A   SECOND-RATE    WOMAN.  295 

*'  Do  you  suppose  that  the  Delvllle  woman 
has  humor?" 

"  Her  dress  bewrays  her.  How  can  a 
Thing  who  wears  her  supplement  under  her 
left  arm  have  any  notion  of  the  fitness  of 
things  —  much  less  their  folly?  If  she  dis- 
cards The  Dancing  Master  after  having  once 
seen  him  dance,  I  may  respect  her.  Other- 
wise" — 

"  But  are  we  not  both  assuming  a  great 
deal  too  much,  dear  ?  You  saw  the  woman 
at  Peliti's  —  half  an  hour  later  you  saw  her 
walking  with  The  Dancing  Master  —  an  hour 
later  you  met  her  here  at  the  Library." 

"  Still  with  The  Dancing  Master,  remem- 
ber. 

"  Still  with  The  Dancing  Master,  I  admit, 
but  why  on  the  strength  of  that  should  you 
imagine  "  — 

"  I  imagine  nothing.  I  have  no  imagina- 
tion. I  am  only  convinced  that  The  Dan- 
cing Master  Is  attracted  to  The  Dowd  because 
he  Is  objectionable  in  every  way  and  she  in 
every  other.     If   I    know   the   man    as   you 


296  UNDER    THE  DEODARS. 

have  described  him,  he  holds  his  wife  in 
deadly  subjection  at  present." 

"  She  is  twenty  years  younger  than  he." 

"  Poor  wretch  !  And,  in  the  end,  after  he 
has  posed  and  swaggered  and  lied  —  he  has 
a  mouth  under  that  ragged  mustache  sim- 
ply made  for  lies  —  he  will  be  rewarded  ac- 
cording to  his  merits." 

"  I  wonder  what  those  really  are,"  said 
Mrs.  Mallowe. 

But  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  her  face  close  to  the 
shelf  of  the  new  books,  was  humming 
softly:  "  What  shall  he  have  who  killed 
the  Deer  f  She  was  a  lady  of  unfettered 
speech.  One  month  later,  she  announced 
her  intention  of  calling  upon  Mrs.  Delville. 
Both  Mrs.  Hauksbee  and  Mrs.  Mallow^e  were 
in  morning  wrappers,  and  there  was  a  great 
peace  in  the  land. 

''  I  should  go  as  I  was,"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe. 
''  It  would  be  a  delicate  compliment  to  her 
style." 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  studied  herself  in  the 
glass. 


A   SECOND-RATE    WOMAN.  297 

*'  Assuming  for  a  moment  that  she  ever 
darkened  these  doors,  I  should  put  on  this 
robe,  after  all  the  others,  to  show  her  what  a 
morning-wrapper  ought  to  be.  It  might 
enliven  her.  As  it  is,  I  shall  go  in  the  dove- 
colored  —  sweet  emblem  of  youth  and  inno- 
cence—  and  shall  put  on  my  new  gloves." 

"  If  you  really  are  going,  dirty  tan  would 
be  too  good  ;  and  you  know  that  dove-color 
spots  with  the  rain." 

"  I  care  not.  I  may  make  her  envious. 
At  least  I  shall  try,  though  one  cannot  expect 
very  much  from  a  woman  who  puts  a  lace 
tucker  into  her  habit." 

"  Just  Heavens  !    When  did  she  do  that  ?  " 

"  Yesterday  —  riding  with  The  Dancing 
Master.  I  met  them  at  the  back  of  Jakko, 
and  the  rain  had  made  the  lace  lie  down. 
To  complete  the  effect,  she  was  wearing  an 
unclean  ierai  with  the  elastic  under  her  chin. 
I  felt  almost  too  well  content  to  take  the 
trouble  to  despise  her." 

"The  Hawley  Boy  was  riding  with  you. 
What  did  he  think  ? " 


298  UNDER    THE  DEODARS. 

''Does  a  boy  ever  notice  these  things? 
Should  I  Hke  him  If  he  did  ?  He  stared  In 
the  rudest  way,  and  just  when  I  thought  he 
had  seen  the  elastic,  he  said,  '  There's  some- 
thing very  taking  about  that  face.'  I  re- 
buked him  on  the  spot.  I  don't  approve  of 
boys  being  taken  by  faces." 

''  Other  than  your  own.  I  shouldn't  be  In 
the  least  surprised  If  the  Hawley  Boy  Imme- 
diately went  to  call." 

*'  I  forbade  him.  Let  her  be  satisfied  with 
The  Dancing  Master,  and  his  wife  when  she 
comes  up.  I'm  rather  curious  to  see  Mrs. 
Bent  and  the  Delville  woman  together." 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  departed  and,  at  the  end 
of  an  hour,  returned  slightly  flushed. 

''There  Is  no  limit  to  the  treachery  of 
youth !  I  ordered  the  Hawley  Boy,  as  he 
valued  my  patronage,  not  to  call.  The  first 
person  I  stumble  over  —  literally  stumble 
over — In  her  poky,  dark,  little  drawing- 
room  Is,  of  course,  the  Hawley  Boy.  She 
kept  us  waiting  ten  minutes,  and  then 
emerged  as  though  she  had  been  tipped  out 


A    SECOND-RATE    WOMAN.  299 

of  the  dirty-clothes-basket.  You  know  my 
way,  dear,  when  I  am  at  all  put  out.  I  was 
Superior,  crrrruski?igly  Superior !  'Lifted 
my  eyes  to  Heaven,  and  had  heard  of  noth- 
ing—  'dropped  my  eyes  on  the  carpet  and 
'  really  didn't  know  '  —  'played  with  my 
card-case  and  '  supposed  so.'  The  Hawley 
Boy  giggled  like  a  girl,  and  I  had  to  freeze 
him  with  scowls  between  the  sentences.'* 

"And  she?" 

"  She  sat  in  a  heap  on  the  edge  of  a 
couch,  and  managed  to  convey  the  impres- 
sion that  she  was  suffering  from  stomach- 
ache, at  the  very  least.  It  was  all  I  could  do 
not  to  ask  after  her  symptoms.  When  I 
rose,  she  grunted  just  like  a  buffalo  in  the 
water  —  too  lazy  to  move." 

"  Are  you  certain  "  — 

"Am  I  blind,  Polly?  Laziness,  sheer  lazi- 
ness, nothing  else  —  or  her  garments  were 
only  constructed  for  sitting  down  in.  I 
stayed  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  trying  to 
penetrate  the  gloom,  to  guess  what  her  sur- 
roundings were  like,  while  she  stuck  out  her 
tongue." 


300  UNDER    THE  DEODARS. 

''Lu—cy/'' 

"•  Well  —  ril  withdraw  the  tongue,  though 
rm  sure  if  she  didn't  do  it  when  I  was  in 
the  room,  she  did  the  minute  I  was  outside. 
At  any  rate,  she  lay  in  a  lump  and  grunted. 
Ask  the  Hawley  Boy,  dear.  I  believe  the 
grunts  were  meant  for  sentences,  but  she 
spoke  so  indistinctly  that  I  can't  swear  to  it." 

**  You  are  incorrigible,  simply." 

''I  am  not/  Treat  me  civilly,  give  me 
peace  with  honor,  don't  put  the  only  avail- 
able seat  facing  the  window,  and  a  child  may 
eat  jam  in  my  lap  before  Church.  But  I 
resent  being  grunted  at.  Wouldn't  you  ? 
Do  you  suppose  that  she  communicates  her 
views  on  life  and  love  to  The  Dancing 
Master  in  a  set  of  modulated  '  Grmphs  ? ' " 

*'  You  attach  too  much  importance  to  The 
Dancing  Master." 

"■*  He  came  as  we  went,  and  The  Dowd 
grew  almost  cordial  at  the  sight  of  him. 
He  smiled  greasily,  and  moved  about  that 
darkened  dog-kennel  in  a  suspiciously  famil- 
iar way." 


A    SECOXD-RATE    WOMAN.  301 

''  Don't  be  uncharitable.  Any  sin  but  that 
I'll  forgive." 

"  Listen  to  the  voice  of  History.  I  am 
only  describing  what  I  saw.  He  entered, 
the  heap  on  the  sofa  revived  slightly,  and  the 
Hawley  Boy  and  I  came  away  together.  He 
is  disillusioned,  but  I  felt  it  my  duty  to 
lecture  him  severely  for  going  there.  And 
that's  all." 

''  Now  for  Pity's  sake  leave  the  wretched 
creature  and  The  Dancing  Master  alone. 
They  never  did  you  any  harm." 

*'  No  harm  !  To  dress  as  an  example  and 
a  stumbling-block  for  half  Simla,  and  then 
to  find  this  Person  who  Is  dressed  by  the 
hand  of  God  —  not  that  I  wish  to  disparage 
Him  for  a  moment,  but  you  know  the  tikka- 
dhurzie  way.  He  attires  those  lilies  of  the 
field  —  this  Person  draws  the  eyes  of  men 
—  and  some  of  them  nice  men  !  It's  almost 
enough  to  make  one  discard  clothing.  I  told 
the  Hawley  Boy  so." 

''  And  what  did  that  sweet  youth  do  ?  " 

"  Turned  shell-pink  and  looked  across  the 


302  UNDER    THE   DEODARS. 

far  blue  hills  like  a  distressed  cherub.  Aiit 
I  talking  wildly,  Polly  ?  Let  me  say  my  say, 
and  I  shall  be  calm.  Otherwise  I  may  go 
abroad  and  disturb  Simla  with  a  few  original 
reflections.  Excepting  always  your  own 
sweet  self,  there  isn't  a  single  woman  in  the 
land  who  understands  me  when  I  am  —  what's 
the  word  ?  " 

"  Tete-felee','  suggested  Mrs.  Mallowe. 

*'  Exactly  !  And  now  let  us  have  tifiFin. 
The  demands  of  Society  are  exhausting,  and 
as  Mrs.  Delville  says  "  —  Here  Mrs  Hauks- 
bee,  to  the  horror  of  the  khitinatgars,  lapsed 
Into  a  series  of  grunts,  while  Mrs.  Mallowe 
stared  in  lazy  surprise. 

"  '  God  gie  us  a  gude  conceit  of  oorselves,'  " 
said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  piously,  returning  to  her 
natural  speech.  ''  Now,  in  any  other  woman 
that  would  have  been  vulgar.  I  am  con- 
sumed with  curiosity  to  see  Mrs.  Bent.  I 
expect  complications." 

''  Woman  of  one  idea,"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe. 
shortly,  ''  all  complications  are  as  old  as  the 
hills !  I  have  lived  through  or  near  all  — 
(iU—maA  " 


A    SECOND-RATE    V/OMAN.  303 

*'  And  yet  do  not  understand  that  men  and 
women  never  behave  twice  aHke.  I  am  old 
who  was  young  —  if  ever  I  put  my  head  in 
your  lap,  you  dear,  big  sceptic,  you  will  learn 
that  my  parting  is  gauze  —  but  never,  no 
never,  have  I  lost  my  interest  in  men  and 
women.  Polly,  I  shall  see  this  business  out 
to  the  bitter  end." 

"  I  am  going  to  sleep,"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe 
calmly.  "  I  never  interfere  with  men  or 
women  unless  I  am  compelled,"  and  she 
retired  with  dignity  to  her  own  room. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee's  curiosity  was  not  long 
left  ungratified,  for  Mrs.  Bent  came  up  to 
Simla  a  few  days  after  the  conversation 
faithfully  reported  above,  and  pervaded  the 
Mall  by  her  husband's  side. 

'*  Behold  !  "  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  thought- 
fully rubbing  her  nose.  **  That  is  the  last 
link  of  the  chain,  if  we  omit  the  husband  of 
the  Delville,  whoever  he  may  be.  Let  me 
consider.  The  Bents  and  the  Delvilles 
inhabit  the  same  hotel ;  and  the  Delville  is 
detested  by  the  Waddy  —  do  you  know  the 


304  UNDER    THE  DEODARS. 

Waddy  ?  —  who  is  almost  as  big  a  dowd. 
The  Waddy  also  abominates  the  male  Bent, 
for  which,  if  her  other  sins  do  not  weigh  too 
heavily,  she  will  eventually  be  caught  up  to 
Heaven." 

''  Don't  be  irreverent/'  said  Mrs.  Mallowe, 
"  I  like  Mrs.  Bent's  face." 

"  I  am  discussing  the  Waddy,"  returned 
Mrs.  Hauksbee  loftily.  ''The  Waddy  will 
take  the  female  Bent  apart,  after  having 
borrowed  —  yes  !  —  everything  that  she  can, 
from  hairpins  to  babies'  bottles.  Such,  my 
dear,  is  life  in  a  hotel.  The  Waddy  will  tell 
the  female  Bent  facts  and  fictions  about  The 
Dancing  Master  and  The  Dowd." 

*'  Lucy,  I  should  like  you  better  if  you 
were  not  always  looking  into  people's  back- 
bedrooms." 

''  Anybody  can  look  into  their  front  draw- 
ing-rooms ;  and  remember  whatever  I  do, 
and  whatever  I  look,  I  never  talk  —  as  the 
Waddy  will.  Let  us  hope  that  The  Dancing 
Master's  greasy  smile  and  manner  of  the 
pedagogue  will '  soften  the  heart  of  that  cow,' 


A   SECOND-RATE   JVOA/AAT.  305 

his  wife.  If  mouths  speak  truth,  I  should 
think  that  Httle  Mrs.  Bent  could  get  very 
angry  on  occasion." 

'*  But  what  reason  has  she  for  being 
angry  ?  " 

"  What  reason  !  The  Dancing  Master  In 
himself  Is  a  reason.  How  does  It  go  ?  'If 
in  his  life  some  trivial  errors  fall,  Look  In  his 
face  and  you'll  believe  them  all.'  I  am 
prepared  to  credit  any  evil  of  The  Dancing 
Master,  because  I  hate  him  so.  And  The 
Dowd  is  so  disgustingly  badly  dressed  "  — 

"  That  she,  too,  is  capable  of  every 
iniquity  ?  I  always  prefer  to  believe  the  best 
of  everybody.     It  saves  so  much  trouble." 

''  Very  good.  I  prefer  to  believe  the 
worst.  It  saves  useless  expenditure  of 
sympathy.  And  you  may  be  quite  certain 
that  the  Waddy  believes  with  me." 

Mrs.  Mallowe  sighed  and  made  no  answer. 

The  conversation  was  holden  after  dinner 
while  Mrs.  Hauksbee  was  dressing  for  a 
dance. 

**  I    am  too  tired  to    go,"    pleaded    Mrs. 


306  UNDER   THE  DEODARS, 

Mallowe,  and  Mrs.  Hauksbee  left  her  in 
peace  till  two  in  the  morning,  when  she  was 
aware  of  emphatic  knocking  at  her  door. 

"  Don't  be  very  angry,  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Hauksbee.  "  My  idiot  of  an  ayah  has  gone 
home,  and,  as  I  hope  to  sleep  to-night,  there 
isn't  a  soul  in  the  place  to  unlace  me." 

''  Oh,  this  is  too  bad !  "  said  Mrs.  Mallowe 
sulkily. 

*'  'Can't  help  it.  I'm  a  lone,  lorn  grass- 
widow,  but  I  will  not  sleep  in  my  stays.  And 
such  news  too  !  Oh,  do  unlace  me,  there's 
a  darling!  The  Dowd  —  The  Dancing  Mas- 
ter —  I  and  the  Hawley  Boy  —  You  know 
the  North  veranda  ? " 

''  How  can  I  do  anything  if  you  spin 
round  like  this  ? "  protested  Mrs.  Mallowe, 
fumbling  with  the  knot  of  the  lace. 

"  Oh,  I  forget.  I  must  tell  my  tale  with- 
out the  aid  of  your  eyes.  Do  you  know 
you've  lovely  eyes,  dear?  Well,  to  begin 
with,  I  took  the  Hawley  Boy  to  a  kala 
juggahr 

"  Did  he  want  much  taking?" 


A   SECOJVD-RATE    WOAfAN.  307 

*'  Lots !  There  was  an  arrangement  of 
loose-boxes  in  hanats,  and  she  was  in  the 
next  one  talking  to  7//;;^." 

''Which?     How?     Explain." 

''  You  know  what  I  mean — The  Dowd  and 
The  Dancing  Master.  We  could  hear  every 
word,  and  we  listened  shamelessly  —  'spe- 
cially the  Hawley  Boy.  Polly,  I  quite  love 
that  woman  !  " 

''  This  is  interesting.  There  !  Now  turn 
round.     What  happened  ?  " 

*'  One  moment.  Ah — h  !  Blessed  relief. 
I've  been  looking  forward  to  taking  them  off 
for  the  last  half-hour  —  which  is  ominous  at 
my  time  of  life.  But,  as  I  was  saying,  we 
listened  and  heard  The  Dowd  drawl  worse 
than  ever.  She  drops  her  final  g's  like 
a  barmaid  or  a  blue-blooded  Aide-de-Camp. 
*  Look  he-ere,  you're  gettin*  too  fond  o' 
me,'  she  said,  and  The  Dancing  Master 
owned  it  was  so  in  language  that  nearly 
made  me  ill.  The  Dowd  reflected  for  a 
while.  Then  we  heard  her  say,  *  Look 
he-ere,   Mister  Bent,  why  are   you  such  an 


308  UNDER   THE  DEODARS. 

aw-ful  liar?'  I  nearly  exploded  while  The 
Dancing  Master  denied  the  charge.  It 
seems  that  he  never  told  her  he  was  a 
married  man." 

''  I  said  he  wouldn't." 

''And  she  had  taken  this  to  heart,  on 
personal  grounds,  I  suppose.  She  drawled 
along  for  five  minutes,  reproaching  him  with 
his  perfidy  and  grew  quite  motherly.  '  Now 
you've  got  a  nice  little  wife  of  your  own  — 
you  have,'  she  said.  '  She's  ten  times  too 
good  for  a  fat  old  man  like  you,  and,  look 
he-ere,  you  never  told  me  a  word  about  her, 
and  I've  been  thinkin'  about  it  a  good  deal, 
and  I  think  you're  a  liar.'  Wasn't  that  deli- 
cious ?  The  Dancing  Master  maundered  and 
raved  till  the  Hawley  Boy  suggested  that  he 
should  burst  in  and  beat  him.  His  voice 
runs  up  into  an  impassioned  squeak  when  he 
is  afraid.  The  Dowd  must  be  an  extraordi- 
nary woman.  She  explained  that  had  he 
been  a  bachelor  she  might  not  have  objected 
to  his  devotion  ;  but  since  he  was  a  married 
man  and  the  father  of  a  very  nice  baby,  she 


A   SECOND-RATE    WOMAN.  309 

considered  him  a  hypocrite,  and  this  she 
repeated  twice.  She  wound  up  her  drawl 
with  :  'An'  I'm  telHn'  you  this  because  your 
wife  is  angry  with  me,  an'  I  hate  quarrelHn' 
with  any  other  woman,  an'  I  Hke  your  wife. 
You  know  how  you  have  behaved  for  the 
last  six  weeks.  You  shouldn't  have  done  it, 
indeed  you  shouldn't.  You're  too  old  an'  too 
fat.'  Can't  you  imagine  how  The  Dancing 
Master  would  wince  at  that !  '  Now  go  away,' 
she  said.  '  I  don't  want  to  tell  you  what  I 
think  of  you,  because  I  think  you  are  not 
nice.  I'll  stay  he-ere  till  the  next  dance 
begins.'  Did  you  think  that  the  creature 
had  so  much  in  her  ? " 

"  I  never  studied  her  as  closely  as  you  did. 
It  sounds  unnatural.     What  happened  ?  " 

''  The  Dancing  Master  attempted  blandish- 
ment, reproof,  jocularity,  and  the  style  of  the 
Lord  High  Warden,  and  I  had  almost  to 
pinch  the  Hawley  Boy  to  make  him  keep 
quiet.  She  grunted  at  the  end  of  each  sen- 
tence and,  in  the  end,  he  went  away  swearing 
to  himself,  quite  like  a  man  In  a  novel.     He 


310  UNDER   THE  DEODARS. 

looked  more  objectionable  than  ever.  I 
laughed.  I  love  that  woman  —  In  spite  of 
her  clothes.  And  now  I'm  going  to  bed. 
What  do  you  think  of  It  ?  " 

''  I  sha  n't  begin  to  think  till  the  morning," 
said  Mrs.  Mallowe  yawning.  "  Perhaps  she 
spoke  the  truth.  They  do  fly  into  it  by 
accident  sometimes," 

Mrs.  Hauksbee's  account  of  her  eaves- 
dropping was  an  ornate  one  but  truthful  in 
the  main.  For  reasons  best  known  to  her- 
self, Mrs.  ''  Shady"  Delvllle  had  turned  upon 
Mr.  Bent  and  rent  him  limb  from  limb,  cast- 
ing him  away  limp  and  disconcerted  ere  she 
withdrew  the  light  of  her  eyes  from  him  per- 
manently. Being  a  man  of  resource,  and 
anything  but  pleased  in  that  he  had  been 
called  both  old  and  fat,  he  gave  Mrs.  Bent  to 
understand  that  he  had,  during  her  absence 
in  the  Doon,  been  the  victim  of  unceasing 
persecution  at  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Delvllle, 
and  he  told  the  tale  so  often  and  with  such 
eloquence  that  he  ended  in  believing  it, 
while  his  wife  marvelled  at  the  manners  and 


A   SECOND-RATE    WOMAN.  311 

customs  of  ''  some  women."  When  the  sit- 
uation showed  signs  of  languishing,  Mrs. 
Waddy  was  always  on  hand  to  wake  the 
smouldering  fires  of  suspicion  in  Mrs.  Bent's 
bosom  and  to  contribute  generally  to  the 
peace  and  comfort  of  the  hotel.  Mr.  Bent's 
life  was  not  a  happy  one,  for  if  Mrs.  Waddy's 
story  were  true,  he  was,  argued  his  wife, 
untrustworthy  to  the  last  degree.  If  his 
own  statement  was  true,  his  charms  of  man- 
ner and  conversation  were  so  great  that  he 
needed  constant  surveillance.  And  he  re- 
ceived it,  till  he  repented  genuinely  of  his 
marriage  and  neglected  his  personal  appear- 
ance. Mrs.  Delville  alone  in  the  hotel  was 
unchanged.  She  removed  her  chair  some  six 
paces  towards  the  head  of  the  table,  and 
occasionally  In  the  twilight  ventured  on  timid 
overtures  of  friendship  to  Mrs.  Bent,  which 
were  repulsed. 

*'  She  does  it  for  my  sake,"  hinted  the 
virtuous  Bent. 

"  A  dangerous  and  designing  woman," 
purred  Mrs.  Waddy. 


312  UNDER   THE  DEODARS, 

Worst  of  all,   every  other  hotel  in  Simla 
was  full ! 

"  Polly,  are  you  afraid  of  diphtheria?" 
"  Of  nothing  in    the  world   except   small- 
pox.    Diphtheria  kills,  but  it  doesn't  disfig- 
ure.    Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  Because  the  Bent  baby  has  got  it,  and 
the  whole   hotel   is    upside   down  in   conse- 
quence     The  Waddy  has  '  set  her  five  young 
on  the  rail '  and  fled.     The  Dancing  Master 
fears  for  his  precious  throat,  and  that  miser- 
able little  woman,  his  wife,  has  no   notion  of 
what  ought  to  be  done.     She  wanted  to  put 
it  into  a  mustard  bath  —  for  croup  !  " 
"  Where  did  you  learn  all  this  ?  " 
"Just    now,    on    the    Mall.     Dr.    Howlen 
told  me.     The  Manager  of  the  hotel  is  abus- 
ing the  Bents,  and  the  Bents  are  abusing  the 
Manager.     They  are  a  feckless  couple." 
"  Well.     What's  on  your  mind  ?  " 
"This  ;  and  I  know  it's  a  grave  thing  to  ask. 
Would  you  seriously  object  to  my  bringing 
the  child  over  here,  with  its  mother  ?  " 


A   SECOND-RATE   WOMAN.  313 

*'  On  the  most  strict  understanding  that 
we  see  nothing  of  The  Dancing  Master." 

"  He  will  be  only  too  glad  to  stay  away. 
Polly,  you're  an  angel.  The  woman  really  is 
at  her  wits'  end." 

'*  And  you  know  nothing  about  her,  care- 
less, and  would  hold  her  up  to  public  scorn  if 
it  gave  you  a  minute's  amusement.  There- 
fore you  risk  your  life  for  the  sake  of  her 
brat.  No,  Loo,  Fm  not  the  angel.  I  shall 
keep  to  my  rooms  and  avoid  her.  But  do 
as  you  please  —  only  tell  me  why  you 
do  it." 

Mrs.  Hauksbee's  eyes  softened  ;  she  looked 
out  of  the  window  and  back  into  Mrs. 
Mallowe's  face. 

*'  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee 
simply. 

"You  dear!" 

''Polly!  —  and  for  aught  you  knew  you 
might  have  taken  my  fringe  off.  Never  do 
that  again  without  warning.  Now  we'll  get 
the  rooms  ready.  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  be 
allowed  to  circulate  in  society  for  a  month." 


314  UNDER    THE  DEODARS. 

"•  And  I  also.  Thank  goodness  I  shall  at 
last  get  all  the  sleep  I  want/' 

Much  to  Mrs.  Bent's  surprise  she  and  the 
baby  were  brought  over  to  the  house  almost 
before  she  knew  where  she  was.  Bent  was 
devoutly  and  undisguisedly  thankful,  for  he 
was  afraid  of  the  infection,  and  also  hoped 
that  a  few  weeks  in  the  hotel  alone  with  Mrs. 
Delville  might  lead  to  some  sort  of  explana- 
tion. 

Mrs.  Bent  had  cast  her  jealousy  to  the 
winds  in  her  fear  for  her  child's  life. 

''  We  can  give  you  good  milk,"  said  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  to  her,  "  and  our  house  is  much 
nearer  to  the  Doctor's  than  the  hotel,  and 
you  won't  feel  as  though  you  were  living  in 
a  hostile  camp.  Where  is  the  dear  Mrs. 
Waddy?  She  seemed  to  be  a  particular 
friend  of  yours." 

"They've  all  left  me,"  said  Mrs.  Bent  bit- 
terly. "  Mrs.  Waddy  went  first.  She  said  I 
ought  to  be  ashamed  o{  myself  for  introdu- 
cing diseases  there,  and  I  am  sure  it  wasn't 
my  fault  that  litde  Dora."  .  .  . 


A   SECOND-RATE    WOMAN.  315 

"■  How  nice !  "  cooed  Mrs.  Hauksbee. 
**  The  Waddy  is  an  infectious  disease  herself 
— '  more  quickly  caught  than  the  plague  and 
the  taker  runs  presently  mad.'  I  lived  next 
door  to  her  at  the  Elysium,  three  years  ago. 
Now  see,  you  won't  give  us  the  least  trouble, 
and  I've  ornamented  all  the  house  with 
sheets  soaked  in  carbolic.  It  smells  com- 
forting, doesn't  it  ?  Remember  I'm  always 
in  call,  and  my  ayah's  at  your  service  when 
yours  goes  to  her  meals  and  .  .  .  and  -.  .  . 
if  you  cry  I'll  never  forgive  you." 

Dora  Bent  occupied  her  mother's  unprofit- 
able attention  through  the  day  and  the  night. 
The  Doctor  called  thrice  in  the  twenty-four 
hours,  and  the  house  reeked  with  the  smell 
of  the  Condy's  Fluid,  chlorine  water,  and 
carbolic  acid  washes.  Mrs.  Mallowe  kept  to 
her  own  rooms  —  she  considered  that  she 
had  made  sufficient  concessions  in  the  cause 
of  humanity  —  and  Mrs.  Hauksbee  was  more 
esteemed  by  the  Doctor  as  a  help  in  the 
sick-room  than  the  half-distraught  mother. 

*'  I    know   nothing  of    illness,"   said    Mrs. 


3l6  UNDER    THE  DEODARS. 

Hauksbee  to  the  Doctor.  ''  Only  tell  me 
what  to  do,  and  I'll  do  it." 

"  Keep  that  crazy  woman  from  kissing  the 
child,  and  let  her  have  as  litde  to  do  with  the 
nursing  as  you  possibly  can,"  said  the  Doc- 
tor;  ''  I'd  turn  her  out  of  the  sick-room,  but 
that  I  honestly  believe  she'd  die  of  anxiety. 
She  is  less  than  no  good,  and  I  depend  on 
you  and  the  ayahs,  remember." 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  accepted  the  responsibility, 
even  though  it  painted  olive  hollows  under 
her  eyes  and  forced  her  into  her  oldest 
dresses.  Mrs.  Bent  clung  to  her  with  more 
than  childlike  faith. 

*'  I  know  you'll  make  Dora  well,  won't 
you  ? "  she  said  at  least  twenty  times  a  day ; 
and  twenty  times  a  day  Mrs.  Hauksbee 
answered  valiantly,  ''  Of  course  I  will." 

But  Dora  did  not  improve,  and  the  Doc- 
tor seemed  to  be  always  in  the  house. 

"•  There's  some  danger  of  the  thing  taking 
a  bad  turn,"  he  said ;  ''  I'll  come  over 
between  three  and  four  in  the  morning 
to-morrow." 


A   SECOND-RATE   WOMAN.  317 

"  Good  gracious  !  "  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee. 
"  He  never  told  me  what  the  turn  would  be  ! 
My  education  has  been  horribly  neglected ; 
and  I  have  only  this  foolish  mother-woman 
to  fall  back  upon." 

The  night  wore  through  slowly,  and  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  dozed  in  a  chair  by  the  fire. 
There  was  a  dance  at  the  Viceregal  Lodge, 
and  she  dreamed  of  it  till  she  was  aware  of 
Mrs.  Bent's  anxious  eyes  staring  into  her 
own. 

''  Wake  up  !  Wake  up  !  Do  something  !  '* 
cried  Mrs.  Bent  piteously.  *'  Dora's  choking 
to  death  !     Do  you  mean  to  let  her  die  ?  " 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  jumped  to  her  feet  and  bent 
over  the  bed.  The  child  was  fighting  for 
breath,  while  the  mother  wrung  her  hands  in 
despair. 

''  Oh,  what  can  I  do !  What  can  you  do ! 
She  won't  stay  still !  I  can't  hold  her.  Why 
didn't  the  Doctor  say  this  was  coming  ? " 
screamed  Mrs.  Bent.  ''  Won't  yo\x  help  me? 
She*s  dying ! " 

"I  —  Tve  never  seen  a  child  die  before  !  " 


3l8  UNDER    THE  DEODARS. 

Stammered  Mrs.  Hauksbee  feebly,  and  then 
—  let  no  one  blame  her  weakness  after  the 
strain  of  long  watching  —  she  broke  down, 
and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  The 
ayahs  on  the  threshold  snored  peacefully. 

There  was  a  rattle  of  'rickshaw  wheels 
below,  the  clash  of  an  opening  door,  a  heavy 
step  on  the  stairs,  and  Mrs.  Delville  entered 
to  find  Mrs.  Bent  screaming  for  the  Doctor 
as  she  ran  round  the  room.  Mrs.  Hauksbee, 
her  hands  to  her  ears,  and  her  face  buried  in 
the  chintz  of  a  chair,  was  quivering  with  pain 
at  each  cry  from  the  bed,  and  murmuring, 
''  Thank  God,  I  never  bore  a  child  !  Oh  ! 
thank  God,  I  never  bore  a  child  !  " 

Mrs.  Delville  looked  at  the  bed  for  an 
instant,  took  Mrs.  Bent  by  the  shoulders,  and 
said  quietly,  "  Get  me  some  caustic.  Be 
quick." 

The  mother  obeyed  mechanically.  Mrs. 
Delville  had  thrown  herself  down  by  the  side 
of  the  child  and  was  opening  its  mouth. 

"Oh,  you're  killing  her!"  cried  Mrs. 
Bent.  ''  Where's  the  Doctor  ?  Leave  her 
alone ! " 


A    SECOND-RATE    WOMAN.  319 

Mrs.  Delville  made  no  reply  for  a  minute, 
but  busied  herself  with  the  child. 

*'  Now  the  caustic,  and  hold  a  lamp  behind 
my  shoulder.  Will  you  do  as  you  are  told  ? 
The  acid-bottle,  if  you  don't  know  what  I 
mean,"  she  said. 

A  second  time  Mrs.  Delville  bent  over  the 
child.  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  her  face  still  hidden, 
sobbed  and  shivered.  One  of  the  ayahs 
staggered  sleepily  into  the  room,  yawning : 
''  Doctor  Sahib  haiT 

Mrs.  Delville  turned  her  head. 

"  You're  only  just  in  time,"  she  said.  **  It 
was  chokin'  her  when  I  came  an'  I've  burnt  it." 

"There  was  no  sign  of  the  membrane  get- 
ting to  the  air-passages  after  the  last  steam- 
ing. It  was  the  general  weakness,  I  feared," 
said  the  Doctor  half  to  himself,  and  he 
whispered  as  he  looked,  "  You've  done 
what  I  should  have  been  afraid  to  do  with- 
out consultation." 

**  She  was  dyin',"  said  Mrs.  Delville,  under 
her  breath.  "  Can  you  do  any  thin'  ?  What 
a  mercy  it  was  I  went  to  the  dance !  " 


320  tJNDEk    THE  DEODARS. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee Raised  her  head. 

*'  Is  it  all  over  ?  "  she  gasped.  "  Fm  use- 
less. I'm  worse  than  useless  I  What  2iX^  you 
doing  here  ?  " 

She  stared  at  Mrs.  Delville,  and  Mrs. 
Bent,  realizing  for  the  first  time  who  was  the 
Goddess  from  the  Machine,  stared  also. 

Then  Mrs.  Delville  made  explanation,  put- 
ting on  a  dirty  long  glove  and  smoothing  a 
crumpled  and  ill-fitting  ball-dress. 

"  I  was  at  the  dance,  an  the  Doctor  was 
tellin'  me  about  your  baby  bein'  so  ill.  So  I 
came  away  early,  an'  your  door  was  open,  an' 
I  —  I  —  lost  my  boy  this  way  six  months  ago, 
an'  I've  been  tryin'  to  forget  it  ever  since,  an' 
I  —  I — I,  am  very  sorry  for  intrudin'  an' 
anythin'  that  has  happened." 

Mrs.  Bent  was  putting  out  the  Doctor's 
eye  with  a  lamp  as  he  stooped  over  Dora. 

''Take  it  away,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  I  think 
the  child  will  do,  thanks  to  you,  Mrs.  Del- 
ville. /  should  have  come  too  late,  but,  I 
assure  you  "  —  he  was  addressing  himself  to 
Mrs.  Delville  —  "  I  had  not  the  faintest  reason 


A   SECOND-RATE    WOMAN.  321 

to  expect  this.  The  membrane  must  have 
grown  like  a  mushroom.  Will  one  of  you 
ladles  help  me,  please  ?  " 

He  had  reason  for  his  concluding  sentence. 
Mrs.  Hauksbee  had  thrown  herself  Into  Mrs. 
Delvllle's  arms,  where  she  was  weeping 
copiously,  and  Mrs.  Bent  was  unplcturesquely 
mixed  up  with  both,  while  from  the  triple 
tangle  came  the  sound  of  many  sobs  and 
much  promiscuous  kissing. 

**  Good  gracious !  IVe  spoilt  all  your 
beautiful  roses  !  "  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  lifting 
her  head  from  the  lump  of  crushed  gum  and 
calico  atrocities  on  Mrs.  Delville's  shoulder 
and  hurrying  to  the  Doctor. 

Mrs.  Delville  picked  up  her  shawl,  and 
slouched  out  of  the  room,  mopping  her  eyes 
with  the  glove  that  she  had  not  put  on. 

**  I  always  said  she  was  more  than  a 
woman,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Hauksbee  hysterically, 
"  and  that  proves  it !  " 

Six  weeks  later,  Mrs.  Bent  and  Dora  had 
returned  to  the  hotel.     Mrs.  Hauksbee  had 


322  UNDER    THE  DEODARS. 

come  out  of  the  Valley  of  Humiliation, 
had  ceased  to  reproach  herself  for  her  col- 
lapse in  an  hour  of  bitter  need,  and  was  even 
beginning  to  direct  the  affairs  of  the  world  as 
before. 

"  So  nobody  died,  and  everything  went  off 
as  it  should,  and  I  kissed  The  Dowd,  Polly. 
I  feel  so  old.     Does  it  show  in  my  face  ? " 

"  Kisses  don't  as  a  rule,  do  they  ?  Of 
course  you  know  what  the  result  of  The 
Dowd's  providential  arrival  has  been." 

"They  ought  to  build  her  a  statue  —  only 
no  sculptor  dare  reproduce  those  skirts." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Mrs.  Mallowe  quietly.  ''  She 
has  found  another  reward.  The  Dancing 
Master  has  been  smirking  through  Simla, 
giving  every  one  to  understand  that  she  came 
because  of  her  undying  love  for  him  —  for 
him  —  to  save  his  child,  and  all  Simla  natu- 
rally believes  this." 

"But  Mrs.  Bent"  — 

"  Mrs.  Bent  believes  it  more  than  any  one 
else.  She  won't  speak  to  The  Dowd  now. 
Isnt  The  Dancing  Master  an  angel  ?  " 


A    SECOND-RATE    WOMAN.  323 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  lifted  up  her  voice  and 
raged  till  bed-time.  The  doors  of  the  two 
rooms  stood  open. 

"  Polly,"  said  a  voice  from  the  darkness, 
"  what  did  that  American-heiress-globe-trotter 
girl  say  last  season  when  she  was  tipped  out 
of  her  'rickshaw  turning  a  corner?  Some 
absurd  adjective  that  made  the  man  who 
picked  her  up  explode." 

'' '  Paltry,'  "  said  Mrs.  Mallowe.  ''  Through 
her  nose  —  like  this  — '  Ha-ow  pahltry  ! '  " 

"  E-xactly,"  said  the  voice.  "  Ha-ow  pahltry 
it  all  is  !  " 

"Which?" 

''  Everything.  Babies,  Diphtheria,  Mrs. 
Bent  and  the  Dancing  Master,  I  whooping  in 
a  chair,  and  The  Dowd  dropping  in  from 
the  clouds.  I  wonder  what  the  motive  was 
—  all  the  motives." 

-Um!" 

"What  do yo?i  think?" 

"  Don't  ask  me.  She  was  a  woman.  Go 
to  sleep." 


p 


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